Mama Jack Flash

I used to love sleeping late. By late, I mean until 7, when I'd make a lazy stab at getting coffee and the paper. But those days are forgotten now. I'm on a drug that forces the sufferer into menopause and now all hope of a good, heavy sleep is over. Two, three, as much as five times in a night, I'll wake up in a sweat, throwing the covers over and stripping my skin off. If a flash hits after five, that's it. I probably won't get back to sleep.

So, on this Sunday in a rainy June, at 5.10 a.m., I was too hot to even lay back down in the bed. So I decided to use the time wisely. I got up, went to the garage, moved this here and that there until I could get to my bike, still somewhat in pieces after being shipped in the tiny trunk of my Corolla. It took an hour of grief and aggro to get the bike lubed and roadworthy again -- I'm total pants at getting a rear wheel seated properly -- but it seemed I was riding before I'd even made a conscious decision to get dressed. I rode loops in Caumsett State Park: think very tall trees, a semi-maintained stately home and its outbuildings. The hike and bike trail -- yes, it's a measly 3 miles long -- loops in splendid shade but never comes close to the sea, despite the park's long shore line. This morning, my first back on the bike since we moved to New York, was blessed with a perfect breeze, enough to cool you but not enough to move you, if you know what I mean. It's just so flipping green around here.

The natives seem friendly, despite their appalling roadsmanship. I'm trying not to embarrass myself too much in front of them. Jesse and I were invited, thanks to the kindness of a neighbor, to a lunch for daughters and mothers on the last day of school. The mom hosting the lunch lived with her husband in a gaspingly large and beautiful estate, complete with heated pool, waterfall and all the rest of it. Thank god I'd rejected the idea of cut-offs in favor of a some white capris pants with a matelot-style shirt. Jesse, confused by the evident wealth, thought the family poor, because they had this little tiny house next to an admittedly impressive pool. "That's not a house, angel, that's the garage." The Big House was on a hill, or rather a hillside.

While chatting with the other mums, all of whom were very pleasant, I noticed a horrifying sight. The middle-schools around here -- well, all the schools, including the pre-K ones -- make a fuss about graduation, holding commencement dances and forcing the kids to walk around in academic robes. The girls were in white robes and scholars' caps. All the girls were pretty indeed and but those ghastly pale robes made them look like albino whales. There was no intelligent comment one could make. I felt the earth shake in anticipation of the truly stupid thing I would say. Wishing to make some compliment, I could only settle on, "They look adorable." Jesse, my dear daughter, gasped. One woman stared mutely at me, incapacitated by shock.

Oh, well, the sandwiches were nice. Jesse, who is still deeply in grief for the loss of her friends in Texas, refused to get in the pool. She hung around me and stared mutely at the other kids. On the way home, she cried mightily, protesting that she'll never ever meet any people as unique and funny and 'like me' as her friends in Texas. My heart broke for her. Again. All we can do is try to keep her busy and be as sweet as we possibly can to her. She was caught smiling a few days later. I have the picture here.

As you may have noted from the clever insinuation above, my car has finally arrived from Texas. I had hoped to leave it in Texas but Mike the Half Scot made me bring it up here. Yes, the humble Corolla is bringing down property values, right here in Cold Scream Harbor.

The curious thing is that I would not have predicted how much easier the Corolla makes my life. Not in the way you might think. Getting out to buy groceries is useful, yes, but the Corolla's real value is in the low expectations it inspires. Want a Yankee tailgater to Back Off? Just drive a car he pities. I guess they figure I'm driving as fast as I can, so they even wave me on sometimes. Who knew?

And the other good thing about having my Corolla back, is that it looks right at home in the parking lot of C Town, the Hispanic grocery my landscaper had told me about. (That was an awkard moment. How do you say, "Gee Whiz, you look kind of Mexican! Where do your homeboys shop?") C Town has everything, well, almost everything, your average Tex-Mex kitchen requires. And the fruits and vegetables are no worse quality than those sold in the tony markets around here at twice the price. In 48 hours, I'd already hit C Town twice and had plotted the quickest route to get there from my house. I couldn't wait to call friends Mark and Barb over to come and eat tortillas and poblanos. I was mixing the dough for the first batch almost before I got the groceries out of the car.

And while I rolled out the first dozen, Mama Jack Flash came twice. That bitch. At least the hotflashes are keeping my weight down, by burning up every calorie a tortilla can bestow. I munched the first one out on the porch, and watched as the latest storm withdrew, leaving a sky that looked like it, too, was boiling.