HIGHLAND HIGHS

The Highland Games are the largest of their kind, south of Canada. Or so I've been told by my entire family. They are the gathering of Scots from every clan--fully bedecked in their tartan regalia--practicing the games of strength and skill handed down from that wee, cold rocky island. The Games also fill the coffers of the town of Lincoln, NH, which closely resembles Scotland. And, my family has been in attendance for over a decade.

This is mostly do to the soon-to-be-reigning matriarch of the Minns Clan: my next-in-line sister, the psychiatric social worker ER nurse, Ann. Since I "ran away" thirty five years ago (as my Mother states to anyone who will listen), Ann has come into her own in the family and the family has become accustomed to depending on her for more than her share of...well...everything. Ann has been Celtic obsessed from birth...even when all we knew was that we were mega-Irish. Now, years later, with research methods vastly improved, we have come to discover that on my father's side of the family there is Scot's blood. (The Kelley's, from my Grandmother, are all Irish, indeed.) But alas, "Minns" comes from the Scots' clan, "Menzies". So, we are even more "mutts" than first suspected. The line goes like this: Scottish, Irish, Norwegian, Canadian-French-Native American (mostly hidden and talked about in dim whispers--except by me, the Bad Seed...).

When all of this was revealed to me whilst I was living in L.A., I was sure my father would be mortified. Far from it! Like any good Scotsman, he embraced the bagpipes, the kilts, the tartans, the knobby knees and crotch-covering-sporin where all good Bravehearts keep whatever they can't carry in their socks and belts. (I nearly puked when my little cop brother, Kev, came down the condo steps, bedecked in the black and white plaid that my clan has come to prefer over the more common red and green plaid of basic wear or the tablecloth plaid of red and white. Settled in his crotch area was the full, stuffed and preserved head of a poor badger--now made into a purse attached to a wide leather belt-- across his hips.)
"Don't freak--Ann got me an otter head last year--but the badger head goes better with our tartan!" Kev grinned.

And indeed, all weekend, I saw not only otter and badger heads, but feet and other parts, cleverly made into wearables. Scots are known for their hardiness, practicality and thrifty ways. (I guess, much like Indians, if you need something, you make it out of what is available.) Still, I can't deal with little otter heads bouncing on the vital areas of large, hairy men in skirts. Nor badger noggins, either. But, then, I am "the runaway".

We arrived up in Franconia Notch en masse. Both my sisters, and my sister-in-law, and myself. Ann gets the same condo each year from my niece's old orthodontist. It's right on the river. Literally. (With the mountains rearing up crisp and green, the leaves at the very tips of the maples beginning to be sprinkled with gold, one could well imagine being captive in the legendary Highlands of yore.) Ann had assured me that no one expected me to wear much beyond my usual jeans and black tee shirts--I was "so Californian now" that all Celtic toughness had melted away. However, I did purchase an authentic Minns/Menzies clan black and white- five- foot- sash and wore it the entire time. I also bought a hand wrought silver "torque". It has wild wolves heads on either end of twisted silver bands, woven into a crescent and worn, open-ended, facing the world, around the neck. The artist was a Scot and gave me the words: " The wolves are protector guides; they are fierce and lead one both out and into the world...this torque is more than a piece of jewelry--but I can tell by looking at ya, Lass, you already know that!" Aah, he knew how to make a sale--and with my spikey hair, blue sunglasses and black tee, I was the Californian runaway member of the clan, for sure.

So, costumed in my own way, I followed my fast-moving family through the weekend. I ate several kinds of lamb; potatoes and cabbage; shortbread and hard-boiled eggs rolled in crushed sausage. I drew the line at haggis. The organ meat of a sheep, stuffed with oatmeal, is not my idea of fine dining--however culturally correct. My sister and sister-in-law toddled off to the whiskey tasting--toddling back at dusk, on high-heels and the cold winds of the mountains.

At one point, a giant hawk swooped down just a foot in front of Ann as she calmly puffed a Marlboro on the deck. Crows had dive-bombed the larger raptor. It was trying an escape dive through the oaks. Ann barely blinked, but I was enthralled. The next evening, Ann tossed the remains of my "grinder" into the bushes, below, at the river's edge. I know she was hoping for the legendary black bears that roam the hills up there. Instead, a tiny red fox munched the salami and peppers, looking up as if to ask for some Parmesan to sprinkle on the treat.

Chipmunks scattered as we sprinted for the shuttle bus each morning. Song birds sang as we hiked back down the hill at the end of the day. My family knew each other's jokes as well as each other's buttons. I got lectured on the way I turned the thermostats up or down; walking faster no matter where we were headed; doing too many loads of laundry; staying up too late and getting up even later. I also got accused of hiding under Ann's good graces and being treated "special", because of being so newly returned to the fold. I was not allowed to pay for a single thing the entire outing nor to drive nor to cook nor even to load the dishwasher. They all have those rites down. I am still the strange "guest". The alien in the soup. The "runaway".
"Give it time," peacemaker cop Kev assures me as he polishes off the jug of merlot.

As I munched pancakes in the railroad car diner on the last morning there, watching the model train scream its little course above our heads, puffing steam and carrying miniature people forever in a large oblong, I had to agree.

"Can I have your bacon if you aren't going to eat it?" Bren asked sister-in-law Laurene.
"Bren, I'll order an extra side for you--Laurene's only got one strip on her plate," Ann offers, reasonably.
"I don't want a side of bacon!" rail-thin Bren hisses at Ann as if Ann has suggested hemlock.
"You can have my bacon, " Laurene pushes the wrinkled strip at Bren.
"I don't want your bacon--thanks..." Bren shakes her head.
"Waitress--can we have another rasher of bacon, please?" Ann flags down the woman.
"Ann--I said I don't want the bacon!" Bren scowls, adjusts her Italian dark glasses, sighs.
The waitress returns with four more strips and plunks them down between the girls.
No one touches the bacon.
When the waitress returns with the check, she starts to comment on the untouched meat, then, wisely, merely smiles.

I'm sure Ann tipped her very well.

LANDING IN THE LEAVES

The thunderstorm should have been the first indication. Or maybe waiting on the runway in Phoenix, without the air conditioning working, for over an hour, as the temp kept climbing past one hundred and ten...The businessman in the bolo tie and cowboy hat who whistled a one-note concerto might have offered another clue...flying home is not an easy thing to do.

As we finally descended in the rain, Manchester NH looming large, I was prepared: I had enough cash to get a motel room for the night and a credit card still able to rent a car the next morning. Beyond these facts, it was a crap shoot. We skidded to a slippery landing and I could sense the approaching autumn even through the steel plane walls.

It was cold. I had on short sleeves and rumpled jeans. My blue sunglasses were smeary. My eyes were red. Whatever spikes I had carefully arranged in my hair had long ago melted. It wasn't a bowl-cut, but it wasn't High Art, either. Man, would there even be a motel nearby at midnight? I cracked my neck. Then my knuckles. Then, I breathed out. At the bottom of the stair-case, ungrinning, grim, stood my brother, the cop, my sister the ER psych nurse and my eldest, red-haired niece.

The difference between coming back to family and coming back to friends is that family is there and insulted that you even thought of a back-up plan. Friends usually suggest you have one "just in case". I re-set my shoulders, forced a smile, and marched down the stairs. Beyond the airport lounge windows, the storm continued to rage.

It was now going on twelve hours since I loaded my duffle bag into the taxi at Detroit Street.
Gus, the super, was there to give me a hug and see me off. My elderly Carribean driver was tight-lipped as I explained we needed to get to Burbank at lunch hour, but we made it. I slipped the baggage guy a twenty and was escorted right through to the boarding gates. All had been relatively well until Phoenix. But Phoenix was hours ago and a whole continent away.

The three walked in relative silence, in front of me, through the parking structure. My feet were numb from cramped sitting and the exit aisle on the plane. I also began to realize: everyone in NE walks at least twice as fast as I do. Old people. Cripples. Babies. Even the dogs seem to be energized. I'd taken off my watch and packed it away so I wasn't sure what time it was on either end of the country. But my body felt like it was the wee hours and my head was just a whining migraine.

Suddenly, just as my brother opens his SUV and I crawl the two feet up into it's back row, we hear voices. Two cars down: a luxury vehicle shining like a new knight is being busted into by an airport maintenance guy and being overseen by a thirtysomething business type in an Armani suit, thousand dollar shoes and designer eyewear. He clutches his cell and is screaming into it. Around us, the parking structure is all but deserted.

"I think he's locked out," Ann, the ER nurse nods to Kev, the cop-brother.
The niece nods, backing up Ann's assessment.
"It's not my problem--I'm off duty--it isn't even my state!" Kev moans, slamming the driver's door. We all know he will help.
Ann walks with Em, the niece with the long legs and red mane, backing up Kevin.
I sit, trying to numb out the pain, the exhaustion, the dehydration and the hunger. I suddenly realize, I haven't eaten nor drunk anything since Phoenix...
Outside the SUV, the business dude's voice is raised and irritated. He's yelling at the maintenance guy. The maintenance guy is clearly relieved at the arrival of my super-hero rescuing familia.
I rub my eyes, wondering who is orchestrating my life...

Fifteen minutes later, both the maintenance guy and my cop bro are using every "break in" tool on the back of the maintenance truck to no avail. Meanwhile, the businessdude remains half screaming into the phone and half screaming at the other men not to scratch his "new car".
Finally, I can't stand it. I grab my Blackberry, my triple A card, and hop out.
I must enter this family any way I can...
"Hey, you can use my auto club card...or my Blackberry...they'll send someone out in like fifteen minutes....we need to get home...I've been on the road traveling since this morning, man. I'm beat..." I wave the blue and white card in the air.
"Who are you?" the businessdude demands, scowling.
"My sister," Ann says.
"My sister," Kev sighs.
"I'm the Big Sister. Why don't you call triple A and get this over...we need to leave!" I plead.
"My Auntie," Em smiles.
The businessdude neither thanks me nor acknowledges the simple plan.
He goes back to screaming into his cell.
My brother and the maintenance guy go back to fooling with the gerry-rigged coathanger and break in tool.
I try again. This time, nobody is even looking at me.
Finally, Ann turns to face me. " He called the road service and they sent the airport maintenance dude...he works at both places."
Even Ann can see the absurdity.
"I called the road service!" Suddenly businessdude is angrily reiterating this fact.
"Is it triple A?" I try to remain civil.
He doesn't reply, turning his back.
"He's a nice man, really, Auntie K.K." Emily shrugs.
Yeah.
Maintenance guy looks up and explains that the businessdude did not call triple A. He called his prepaid Audi dealership and that's how airport maintenance was called in. No one else around this late...
"Triple A is always around..." I point out. No one is listening.
Twenty more minutes of curses. Emily is texting friends all over the state. Ann is smoking her second pack of Marlboros. Kev and the maintenance dude keep promising us that it is "just another inch!" and swapping stories of better tools in better scenarios.
I can't stand it.
It's just too much. We are passing one o'clock in the morning and on top of everything else, I have to pee...
"In L.A., you know what a cop would do about now?" I say loudly enough everyone looks over.
"In about a second, his nightstick would come out and your back window would come down in pieces. Reach in, grab keys, and you'd be out of everyone's hair....you do have insurance, right?" I am not proud but I am truthful.
Businessdude splutters, fumes, faces the other two men for support. They have had enough,f inally, of his attitude.
"She's right, " maintenance guy goes to his truck, looking for a crowbar.
"She's right, man," my little sixfootfour brother says," you got insurance, right?"
Even Ann is done. She rolls her eyes. Stubs out her cigarette. Puts her arm around Emily's shoulders and walks to the still-waiting SUV.
"Good-luck," Kev waves to the airport man," Sorry I wasn't more help."
"No worries," airport maintenance sighs, then turns back to the ever fuming business dude and suggest calling...like...maybe triple A????

Inside the SUV, Ann checks her watch. "Too late to get dinner at a restaurant on the way back," she shakes her head.
"Mickey D's ?" Kev grins, gunning the engine.
"If there's one open this late..." Ann lights another cigarette, blowing smoke out her window.

We drive past the two men. Emily gives a wee wave.
"He was a nice man, really, Auntie K.K.," she texts someone in the dark.
"I bet he was," I close my eyes, suddenly realizing, it isn't raining anymore.

I have landed.

LANDING IN THE LEAVES

The twelve hour journey was complete with thunder and lightning ripping across the wings of the jet. I decided not to take it as a warning...Instead, I clutched the edges of my seat, closed my weary eyes and focused on the fact that at least the air-conditioning was finally working.

We had been left to broil on the Phoenix runway, between stops. Even the Captain was roasting when we finally managed to move away. The new passengers boarding from Phoenix were griping about the sauna, inside, but they hadn't been experiencing it first hand for the last hour. I tried to keep what little cool was left as the businessman with the string tie and cowboy boots kept whistling and loading over-sized carry-ones over my head.

The thunderstorm was the first time I've ever flown in totally frightening weather. Somehow, what was outside the plane's windows wasn't as scary as what was running amok in my head. What the Hell was I doing, interrupting my adult life and suddenly re-winding back to New England? Gardner,no less! The economy there was just as bad as CA,or so my sibs had warned me. Gardner was a tiny furniture making town with the furniture factories transformed into homes for the elderly. All the large industries had moved off. Only WalMart had infiltrated and continued to grow. (Could I exist as a WalMart clone? Had it come to that?)

The plane dipped, suddenly, and the cowboy businessman with the piercing one-note grunted.

"Sorry folks, I am trying to find a pocket of calmer air..." the Captain's strained voice broke into my cloudy thoughts. Right. Me too. Calmer air, all around.

The sibs seemed finally resigned to the fact that it was time for me to re-insert my raggedy self into their midst,no matter how much time had passed nor memories gone unshared. I had resigned myself to accepting whatever Purgatory they wanted to inflict, in order to be tolerated. It was true, I had missed the entire childhoods of my nieces. I had missed the life changes and touchstones of my brothers and sisters, as they eked out their own karmic adulthoods. I had even skipped the aging of the Parental Units--something both inevitable and slightly horrifying. (Most shocking was how unchanged both parents actually seemed to be...if my life follows their genetic maps, I have to find some decent investments!) But, it had been my decision. My choice. This was on no one's head but my own.

My stomach shifted into a final lurch as we descended into Manchester, along with the rain.

The difference between friends and family is that one might always need a backup plan when arriving at midnight, at an airport and relying on the kindness of peers--however, with family, at least my family, no backup plan is necessary. Somebody will meet you at the gate. Maybe not smiling. Maybe not in the best mood, but, they WILL meet you at the gate.

I tried to wipe the sweat off my face, apply some neutral lip gloss, spike up my wilted spikey hair. I sucked in my middle-aged paunch and tried to think about the re-entry. This was a new wilderness for us all. The return of the failed artist...into the arms of the middle-aged nest...with nothing to show for her arrival except rumpled clothes and a splitting head-ache.

They didn't even ask how the flight had been. The midnight rainstorm was its own answer.

In the parking garage, we had almost made it to my cop brother's SUV when we heard two men with cell phones and raised voices, arguing, outside a high end AUDI. My brother sighed, seeking his own vehicle, wanting to begin the two hour drive back to MA. My ER nurse sister pointed her cigarette over the SUV and in the direction of the arguing men. "I'm off duty --it isn't even my home state, geez!" Kev turned around, dropping my duffle bag, and walked in the direction of the guys. Ann followed. My eldest niece was next in line.

I had enough "stuff" for a month. I crawled into the car and just tried to breathe. Pray. Then, Ann came back.

"They locked themselves out. One guy is trying to hook the lock with a wire hanger. The other guy is yelling at him..." Ann puffed her cigarette in disgust.

Then, she went back to the scene.

I waited fifteen minutes. I was freaked out with no one to vent to about the flight; my losses in L.A.; my dehydration migraine nor the fact that I hadn't eaten anything but a banana at six a.m. Still, my family of rescuers was intent on rescuing these two men in the parking garage, now half-past midnight.

I pulled my Blackberry out of my pack. I pulled my AAA card out of my wallet. I had no more truck, but I had a fully paid upper tier membership. I walked over to the crowd.

The guy who owned the AUDI was almost a stereotype--Armani suit, expensive hair cut, thousand dollar hand-made shoes; designer eyewear. He clutched his own cell against his ear and the rescued Owners Manual from his trunk. (I didn't even want to ask how he got into the trunk.)

"I have a triple A card. You can use my card to call... " I hold it up.

"Kev almost has the door open," Ann tells me, watching my brother maneuver the coat hanger and another tool up and down, uselessly.

"Dad! You almost have it!" my niece encourages.

The maintenance man, who had begun the rescue operation, cheers my cop brother on.

Of course, this doesn't work.

"I have a triple A card. You can use my cell to call them--" I try again.

"Look, Lady, who are you?" the owner

TANG DISCONNECTS

I was waiting for the cable guy. Due: between three and five p.m.
Outside the city was grinding people like hamburger and frying them on the sidewalks.
Suddenly, a gentle, single "tap" came at the door.
I pulled it wide as it would open.
A lone Asian man, in his forties, with face maroon as a new beet, sweated on the doorstep.
I invited him in.
He waited for me to step back, then, sank to the loft floor. I thought it was heat exhaustion.

"Hey, take it easy...I don't have air conditioning, but, would you like an iced tea?" I ran to the frig before he could answer.

I handed it to the confused looking cable man. He thanked me, quietly, looking like he was going to burst into tears.

"Why so many angry people in this city?! They think I'm coming for their money--I don't even collect money--just cable boxes--some of them even throw them at me! I don't make a salary with the big company--I independent contractor--have to pay for my own gas, my own parking--why so many people crazy? Their minds--so angry--they aren't right! People better than animals, should be better...all people around here rushing so fast--where they gonna go? Next stop light? Why?" He tucked his legs under himself and leaned against the wall.

"I'm sorry, man...geez...maybe because it's so hot outside? Or maybe it's just Los Angeles?" I sit down across from him, on the floor. (Most of the furniture is out of the loft, anyway.)

"You moving?" he finally breathes deeply and gets control. He looks at his clipboard form.

"Yup...going back east...outside of Boston, " try to relax, worried about him stroking out on me.

" What airline you flying?" he asks, suddenly re-animated.

"Uh, Southwest, I think," I point to the confirmation sheet tacked on the door.

"I used to work for United...fourteen years...till 9-11...then, they got rid of everybody that looked like me..." he sighed.

"Man...I know the feeling....didn't the Union help?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Only the senior people...now, I live day to day...this terrible job...they don't pay us right...no benefits...five years barely making it...I have a daughter to take care of..." his voice begins to quaver.

I don't know what to say...telling him I get it--from the union not saving his skinny butt to losing his job after fourteen years with nothing to show for it, to the base pay and struggle to survive in this crazy city...I so get it...I reach out and respectfully touch his arm.

He looks up, then, sees the prayer flags tacked above the confirmation papers. They are gifts from friends, from Tibet.

"You Buddhist?" he asks me, locking eyes for the first time.

"No, but I study the Buddha's teachings...I have Buddhist monk friends, and some nuns, too..." suddenly, something shifts...it's like an air conditioner has gone on in the loft and we are both relaxing.

"People need to practice calmness in this place...they need to start treating each other better...stop the medicines that make them crazy; stop the politicians who steal from everybody, too...we need to be kind..." he smiles, shyly.

"I think, when we calm our minds, we clean our hearts..." I smile back, equally shy.

"Is that why you are moving? So many people in Malibu, Beverly Hills, all leaving the city these days..." he adjusts himself into a full lotus position.

"My Mom is sick...I've been away for too long...I miss...peacefulness...I miss my family, too," I laugh.

"Yes, even Buddha knew when it was time to return home...it's good for your Mother...she will feel your coming home...things will be better for her..." his eyes begin to sparkle.

Suddenly, it is as if this Hollywood film has turned on...am I imagining this or is it really happening...have I created a cliche just to be able to tell the story? I check out his face.
No. There is a real connection here.

He bows a Buddhist bow--to me. I bow back. He says, "This is the first time in five years that someone has sat down with me, has invited me to talk, and given me some tea...thank you...on this terrible day...thank you!"

I take a deep breath for myself.

He stand up at the door. He gives me my receipt. He bows, again, and then gives me a very respectful hug. "I bless your Mother," he says to me, " and you must travel safely."
I feel the tears in the back of my eyes...but I feel stupid, too. (Why is it always so hard to accept these amazing moments when they finally arrive?)

I hand him the string of prayer flags.

"For the traffic..." I tell him.

He takes them, bowing, and heads down the stairs.

Tang Heng, you are so much more than a cable guy.

TANG DISCONNECTS

I am waiting for my cable to be turned off. The company has promised the guy will arrive between three and five p.m. I have crammed in as many movies as possible since yesterday. I have been typing e-mails to all my friends, warning of my impending landing on the East Coast.

At three, I move to the table to watch the street, outside. No truck arrives. I begin attending to last mail delivery items. Suddenly, from the door, their comes a distinct tap. A single rap.

I answer it, surprised to see a man anywhere from thirty-five to fifty; tanned, fit, carrying an alligator- embossed clipboard and sweating as if he'd just run a marathon.

"Cable, ma'am."

I sling the door as wide as it will go, letting in what breeze there is from the open window in the hall. Downstairs, the muffled voices of neighbors, the postal carrier and street traffic drift inside.

He waits till I invite him, and then comes in. I take one look at his face--I think he is about to burst into tears! I ask him if he'd like a can of mint tea--my stock from the Whole Foods run I'd just done two days ago. He seems confused, then, thanks me and slips to the floor. I rush to get the cold drink...I don't need a stranger sprawled unconscious on the loft floor two days before I move out...

Most of the furniture is gone. He props himself against an empty wall. He takes the tea gratefully, still seeming to be upset. But,taking a breath, he looks around, begins asking, for the form, if I am moving.

"Out--to the Boston area-- " I smile, knowing it's an easier explanation than Gardner.

He shakes his head. "So many customers in Santa Monica, in Malibu, in Beverly Hills--they all moving back East...so many..." then his voice cracks and I can tell this man is totally stressed.

He's about to lose it in front of me.

"Look, it's so hot outside...I don't have any air up here, but just take some tea and relax a minute...you are right on time...I'm so happy you came!" I reach out and touch his shoulder, lightly, with respect. I don't know what else to do.

He takes a breath, re-arranges into a full lotus position, then smiles, just a bit.

He looks around what's left in the loft and sees my tiny Tibetan prayer flags, hanging right above where I've tacked the flight confirmation.

"Are you Budhist?" he asks, quietly.

"No, but I am a student of the Buddha--and I have monk and nun friends who are..." I smile back, feeling this "corny" sense of a wave of peace flowing between us--as if someone turned on an air conditioner and made the loft suddenly bearable.

I have to wonder if it is just too, too California, and I'm moving through some absurd reality, or if this is a real lucid moment...before I can talk myself out of it, he pipes up:

He says this is the first time anyone in five years has offered him a chance to sit down for a minute, before unhooking the cables...let alone offer him tea....usually they are suspicious when he knocks on their door or thinks he is coming for money..."I don't even get paid a regular wage! I just collect the boxes and bring them in--sometimes people just throw the boxes at me! Sometimes they break and I get blamed!" his voice rises again. The tears are fought back.

"Maybe because I'm moving... it's just so hot out there...besides, you're on time! I'm thrilled you showed up!" I sit back, wishing I was as comfortable looking as he was in that position.

"What airline are you taking? Jet Blue? To JFK? I worked for United, till 9-11; then they released everybody that looked like me..." he dropped his head against his chest,his hands in his lap.

"Didn't the union help you?" I asked, knowing the probable answer. I just didn't want him to cry.

"So many people let go...only the seniors kept...like now...so many people...living day to day...even me...I have a fourteen year old daughter...I just work, feed her, keep her in school...and drive drive drive with all these angry people in this city...so many people so messed up...twisted tight...like springs...why so many angry people in this city?!"

"I ask myself the same thing," I answer, suddenly shocked that this Asian man has the same issues, exactly, as me...and now he is sitting in the middle of my loft, cross legged, with an iced tea , fighting heat exhaustion!

We go on to speak of Obama, of Arnold and Maria in Sacramento, of the percentages of unemployed that represent to us "real people", whereas in the halls of power, they remain only hills and valleys on print outs...we speak of people needing to quiet their minds in order to clean their hearts...we discuss the life the Buddha led...how he, too, after many travels, had to return home, to share what he knew with his family, too...how we are both missing "home".

He left his family in the Pacific Northwest and came here because of his daughter and whatever relationship that cast her with him ...he, too, longs for peace and somewhere it is less crazed.

Our eyes finally connect and it is like a dream: I know this man (of all the cable guys in this city), came here, and like the guy who installed my computer hook-up and spoke to me of his family crossing the border from Mexico, this conversation I was having,on the floor of the loft, over iced tea, at this end of the journey, was supposed to happen--we were being human for and with each other--simple as that--exchanging heartspace in a respectful, way that humans are supposed to do. Here was this man who was so much more than a cable guy...who loved his daughter enough to leave his own family and reclaim her in a city that was tearing him up. He was making minimum wage, no benefits, had been spit out after fourteen years with a huge corporation, had a clear take on the economy and what was being done to so many of us and also, at his core, knew the answers to his own head and heart pangs..."to find someplace of peace"...."

"People are supposed to take care of each other; people are supposed to not need all the medications, all the pills that keep us crazy; people need to be kind, compassionate, be more than animals...so much more..." he finally stopped the stream of words and just breathed again, deeply.

Then, he bowed, in a little Buddhist way, to me. I bowed back, without self-consciousness nor feeling like a great imposter--this WAS the real deal.. This was the perfect moment in the loft.

Maybe everything had been leading up to simply this.

He rose, again, almost tearing up, taking his tea, his tools, and repeating that this was the first time such a meeting on the job had occurred. Then, he told me, he sends blessing ,to my mother.

It was my turn to tear up. I cleared my throat and said,"Have you ever thought, Tang, that maybe, just maybe, you are so much more than a cable guy?"

His eyes lit up like smokey fire..."I will think about that...thank you. Travel well."

Tang Heng, I believe you.

Namaste.

PETER PAN PACKING

I haven't slept a full night in a month. Two nights ago, I was dozing, coming in and out of a "King Kong" re-run on the muted t.v., when I suddenly noticed: the big box in the corner was just TOO BIG! My heart began to race. My face began to sweat. I hopped off the futon and stubbed my two on a chair as I moved.

I had a re-cycled, paper towel packing box already taped up. (Contents were mostly blazers and books--nothing breakable--all expendable.)Maybe I could just leave it? Did I really need this stuff? I flipped on a light and started sorting, again. My insomnia was part panic attack and part neurotic worry. I was leaving a non-traditional "California lifestyle", to head back to conservative NE, right before the cold weather. I needed the blazers...the books were another story.

I 'd already come to the decision to pack signed books, from friends-- I'd known a few poets in my time...I also kept copies of my own published work. In these times of e-book trade and Barnes and Noble bailing, who knows what may become valuable? If not for their contents, at least for their "object identities"...hmmm.

I steeled myself, assuring my Inner Neurotic, that surely, there were new books to be discovered, inside and outside. I assuaged my defeated writer by pulling three coats and tossing them into a black yard-bag. (I've been dreading bumping into myself,walking on the street, someone covered in my castaways...maybe it's too hot...) I know everything I've left beside the trash cans, in the black bags, has been thoroughly gone through and most stuff has been squirreled off. I've not seen anyone that could pass as my clone...though...so far...

Now, the problem was having to wait till BOX BROTHERS, the local store,opened. I don't know if it is the times or just the location, but my neighborhood (which currently supports four bars; two competing massage parlors; a range of fast food chains and half a dozen hair salons) also keeps a thriving packing supplies business in operation. (Meanwhile, Kinkos, UPS, Fed/Ex, three print shops, the Post Office are also on the same block.) Either there are more writers around here than I had realized, or everyone is leaving the city at this point.

I explained my dilemna,next morning, to the box guy. We both knew he had me: none of the aforementioned businesses give away boxes--let alone free boxes. (Can't even cajole a cantalope container from Trader Joe's, anymore.) We guesstimate the sizes--me by a lively pantomime using arms,legs and raised eyebrows--him by repeating the performance, to make sure we are agreed. Finally, four flat boxes emerge from the back. (I can barely wrangle them as I waddle into Wilshire.) Thank God it's still almost the break of dawn...

In the loft, I get everything taped for the End Times, and am finally ready to move out. Meanwhile, Wendy is coming, to help me cart the load, downstairs,to Fed/Ex.
I close my weary eyes and realize: it's gonna be a three digit scorcher of an afternoon. Ugh.

Two hours later, I hear my name being called from the street, below. Wendy is there, smiling, perky; in her shorts and flip-flops, clutching the new Italian leather purse she got on her trip, her Ray-Bans glistening in the sweltering light. I haul one of the black yard-bags behind me as I let her in. The emotion of her embrace is embarrassing. I didn't think it would be that big a deal for her to say good-bye. Plus, I look like Captain Hook, dragging a black plastic croc behind me... but a hug her back, hoping I'm not too sweaty...or emotional.

We go up to my place, stepping around the paper towel empty box in the hall, and Wendy smiles. She and her friend had moved me in, five years back, from OC to L.A., my lost truck hauling almost everything, their car picking up the remnants. It's a lot less stuff that's going East, this morning.

"I can't believe that's all of it!" Wendy puts her glasses back up on her bangs.

"Well, if it helps, they are really heavy..." I glance at the pile.

"Yeah, but, that's it? That's all?" Wendy bumps her flip flop against one of the boxes.

"Well...I sent some other stuff--new stuff--earlier, so, I'd have stuff waiting for me--in case this stuff is late--you know--underwear, a leather jacket...stuff..." I clear my throat.

"That's a plan..." Wendy grins.
She's known me for over two decades.
She knows: I usually have a back door plan.

Then, she turns to my lap-top. Her Italian Trip is already posted on Facebook!
We spend the next couple hours touring Italy. She has also brought back three rosaries: two of them blessed by the Pope, for my parents--one of them for me. "I thought you'd love this silver one--see--that's the Pope's face on the medal--"

"Wendy, it's so great you thought of me--and my parents--but, I think Dad would like the Pope's face--uhhh, if it's okay, I'll take the rosewood beads--" I carefully put the Pope back in the Roma gift bag.

"It's your call," Wendy shrugs, good naturedly. (I'm her only Catholic friend and all of this stuff mystifies her--even after her month in Italy.)
She also gives me this amazing, carved crystal and embellished with gold, cameo. Three woman's faces smile back. Three Muses,maybe. Or, Wendy and her wife, and me? It's unusually "girly" for my tastes, but, it is the perfect gift of valuable treasure--from Wendy. I give her another hug.

The temp is rising around us like a steam bath. It's time to move the boxes, before the tape starts to unstick. Wendy goes to see if she can double-park her Volvo in front. (Of course, I know she's not going find a spot out there---)Three minutes later, Wendy returns.

"I got a parking place, right out front!" she giggles.

I check the window: some act of God, or maybe a parking angel (the Pope?) has created the primo parking space in front of the building. I cannot believe the luck, but don't question it. Instead, pick up one of the seven bags. I grunt. My joints creak a warning.
Meanwhile, one hundred and ten pound Wendy, in her fit twenties, still, hoists the heaviest box and flip flops down the staircase, merrily conversing. (O how I've aged!) I follow.
In a surprisingly short time--we are in the car, circling the Fed/Ex building.

I have been scoping the Fed/Ex mega post for two months. I know the lay-out of the shipping department. I know the parking spaces outside the store. This isn't a mini-mall with lots of empty space--this is a main street, fronting an ex-department-store- from- the- '50's kinda space. If we don't get parking, out front, I don't know what we are going to do... Wendy spots an empty meter! (I had planned. I had saved my quarters AND taken my credit card. )All along Wilshire and the connecting environs, parking is so expensive and so short-lived, they allow the actual meters to take major credit cards. I hop out, pay for two hours--just in case--and leave Wendy, to guard the car.

Inside, the place is packed. Every department has a line. But, I must have looked like a crazed, middle-aged street person, sweated out, frantic, because suddenly, all the clerks were staring. I stayed in the doorway and called: shipping?

Four teen-aged Fed-Exers pointed to the back. I hobbled, knee audibly creaking, to the corner end of the store.

A kid named Caden, (his nameplate proudly pinned to his extra-long shirt) looked at me suspiciously, over his computer. "Be with ya in a minute," he mumbled, ringing another woman in front of me. I tried to smile, controlling my huffing and sweating, glad for the little break. Then,I gave Caden the facts. I needed a cart, I needed him. We had a mountain of heavy boxes to unload.

I could see he thought I was nuts and that maybe, maybe we had three boxes, max, at the curb. Crazy Lady. Probably Handicapped. (He wasn't pleased.)He had to leave the air conditioning and clean rugs of Fed Ex, for the doggie-doo and gum stained street. (I was wrecking his afternoon.) However, I was undeterred. (I had no choice.)
Caden followed me outside.

On the curb: Wendy, with the back of the Volvo upraised like a flag! With her Mighty Mouse, rock-climbing toned forearms, she has unloaded all the boxes by herself! (And, she looks adorable, still, barely a sweat trickle on her face!) Caden is immediately smitten. (Caden is challenged.) He springs forward, tripping on the cart, righting himself and pitching boxes. Then, he can't move the thing! Well, I am great on level ground...I push and Caden pulls and Wendy looks cute... behind us. We enter the store to gasps of staff and customers--the mountain of stuff is taller than even the very tall Caden. We head to the back. For a second, I expect applause. There is none.

Almost an hour later, Caden, having to re-pack three back-packs into one HUGE industrial sized mega-box, and to insert two more, recycled boxes, into official Fed-Ex parcels, we are through. But Caden, still blushing each time Wendy makes a comment, has trouble ringing us up, and has to run the entire order, (re-weighed and calibrated each time, a total of three attempts) before he gets it finalyzed. (I don't care.) There is air conditioning. It is finished. This massive exodus that couldn't have been accomplished alone--even though I'd tried--now almost complete--thanks to this army of helpers sent to me from Somewhere Good.

It's a lot of money but it's a lot of Life I have crammed into those boxes. (Less than what I thought it might be, but worth every penny.) As we begin to leave, Caden assures me: "They'll arrive, probably by Monday."

Same day I arrive. (Amazing.) I get his Supervisor's number. I am thrilled. He blushes, one last time.

Now, Wendy and I head for Hollywood, for another end- of -days luncheon. We go someplace with cooled air and cooler drinks. We hash the years together--all that we've done and seen and learned and shared. We started out with me as her Teacher, but, as she approached adulthood, we grew into Friends. From the first: Family.We revisit wild back-packing trips in the Wild Places; her own run-away-to-hide-out forays; lovers and lost friends. We revisit our shared and solo adventures. Even if sometimes hard, it's all been very good.

After lunch, I ask if we can take a last trip to Whole Foods--less for nostalgia-- than for supplies for the next five days. (Wendy saw the frig with a pitcher of water left inside.) If I don't want to exist on take-out, this is my last trip for fresh fruit and veggies. She loves Whole Foods and, of course, there is air conditioning! So, through the Fairfax District and to the store we fly.

It is a wonderful environment, full of soft music, sweet smells, lovely air. I pick up cheese; sun-dried tomato tortas; green salad and rice wrapped veggie rolls; hummus; garlic-stuffed olives; pico de gallo; nectarines, blueberries, and enough iced-tea to float a pirate ship. I buy Wendy her first Goji Berries and some Blood Orange Spritzer, to remind her of Italy. Even with the bad jokes, too soon, it's time to head back.

Wendy asks if she can come back upstairs. I am surprised since it is so hot, and since there is never really a lull in traffic in Southern California freeways...but, of course. So, we enter the now ninety- degree- loft and collapse. She helps unload the treasure from Whole Foods. I tell her I have to take a quick shower... as cold as I can make it. She laughs, knowing me all too well, and proceeds to make some calls, while I excuse myself.
It strikes me, again, how it is so easy with our close friends--the simple acts of Life--a kind of grace.

When I get back, she's loaded up the printer, the reams of remaining paper, the ink cartridges--all gifts to her. The printers like new. (It hated me, though, and there's no love lost in passing it on.) Also the drums and guitar that will go home with her; the mermaid painting that was her wedding gift, from me. (It, alone, is four feet by four feet and will fill the back of the Volvo.)
But, before we start loading, we just sit on the loft floor, in front of the roaring fans. Sip iced-tea and Hawaiian Koffee Flower Soda; watch the sun-light distill across the walls.
I've had too few of these kinds of moments over the last five years; this is the quality I want back in my life.

"You know, Minns, if anybody else talked about you the way you talk about yourself, I'd slug them! You aren't old!" Wendy punches me playfully in the arm as I stand up, groaning, the knee still emitting protests.

"Talk to me when you hit fifty, girlfriend!" I hobble to the frig for more tea. (I have to remember where I packed the aspirin...)

By nine-thirty, it's time. Dark is around us, everywhere. She has parked at the end of the block and I'm sweating her un-permited status on the street. But, when I walk her to the car, there's no ticket--again!

"Must be the Pope-beads!" she shrugs.

We load the last chatchkes into the vehicle and slam the back. All packed. Looks like she's the one running. She gives me several tight hugs and a few more tears. She's all grown up.

It sinks in: this time, I'm flying away for reals.

NO MO' KEYS

What does it mean to suddenly find oneself without a single key?

One week from tomorrow, I will know. My apartment loft keys will be turned in; my post box keys will be surrendered; (the truck keys were given up last week.)
I have to figure out if I want to save the old keychain, or, when I finally own another key, shop for a new one...but for one, entire day, (most of it spent in the air), I will be keyless.

I cannot remember when I have been without some sort of key in my life--diary locks needed special miniature keys (even though they could be picked with a bobby-pin--as any girl from the sixties will tell you); my roller skates were dependent on a skate key (one shared by members of the family--sometimes even passed around to neighborhood friends if someone lost their own--and recently, such a childhood buddy mailed me a "found" authentic skate key--bent and rusty-- clearly well loved...now residing in a packed jewellery box, headed "home"...) There were keys, too, to bike locks and backdoors, all hoarded like treasure, protected just as fiercely. Earning the right to carry "enough keys" that they could be used as self-defense objects, was a matter of Junior High pride.

Later on, there were other keys: lost keys to forgotten sea-chests, left in the attic, inciting my imagination, providing fuel for my first fiction. Once, a nun in the second grade had a trunk filled with musical instruments, for her class. She lost the key and the class hadn't had their music time for months. Someone told her the myth that, "Maybe Minns can pick the lock with her scout knife!" Never backing down from a dare, I spent an entire afternoon, belly to linoleum, with several nuns, a few friends and my self-worth, sprawled in the dust. Yes, I had a Girl Scout knife. Yes, it could turn the tumblers. But it would not release the final catch. (I think Mr. Smith, the custodian, finally just took a hammer and chisel to the trunk.)

Then came the keys to my heart--usually lost in emotional swampland; sometimes given away--never to be returned. There were the invisible keys--opening doors that would get me "ahead", as my parents pointed out (usually if I did what was required while looking a certain way and sounding like I came from a certain part of town--all of which I mastered--for a while, until the mastering of those locked doors was too much and I had to find a different entry). Car keys came, but were given back, when I left for college. Then, a whole new keychain filled with dorm room keys, art studio keys and postal box locks--even a few professors' doors, along the way...Always, keys needing to be accounted for, kept track of, used wisely, and finally turned in.

Coming to Los Angeles, suddenly there were the keys to Adulthood to deal with. Different laws necessitated new keys; office doors, desk drawers, my first car, a motorcyle, houses shared with roomies who were always "lending their keys" to unknown parties--which caused new keys to be made, new locks to be installed; keys to places gained through social connections or political connections or simply because I'd earned the trust of someone "in charge"...so many keys...most never lost, just replaced...exchanged...disgarded.

As I examine the keys in my life, I begin to look a bit deeper: keys to the Kingdom; spiritual keys; keys to Enlightenment; keys to success; keys to career; keys to longevity; keys to Mindfulness; keys to Understanding; keys to Peace.

Now my search is focused on keys to unlock the hearts and minds of those closest to me and to whom I return ...the kind there is no keychain for.