Sunburn

One sunny Friday afternoon we went to our local coffeeshop for a quick bite and then to the garage to get the car for our weekend drive to Connecticut.

My fair-skinned husband is prone to sunburn so after putting the convertible top down,  he rubbed some sunscreen on his face.  Then as he drove I was scrutinizing his profile,  as wives in passenger seats are apt to do,  when I noticed a drop of something white on his shirt collar.   At the coffeeshop he’d complained there was too much mayo in his egg salad,  and so I assumed a bit of that egg salad had somehow gotten on his shirt.

There were no handy tissues so I swiped at the white bit with my finger and then put my finger in my mouth.  Of course it wasn’t egg salad but a stray bit of sunscreen and it was  bitter!

I grabbed the Coppertone tube and there – in all caps – was the dire warning – FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY,  DO NOT INGEST.

”I’ve just poisoned myself,  you have to get me to a hospital quick so they can pump my stomach!”   I cried in mounting panic.

”Calm down and call Coppertone.”  said my level-headed husband.    And sure enough beneath the dire warning on the tube was a toll-free customer service number,   and so I took out my cell phone and called.

The Coppertone rep listened to my sad tale and asked some pertinent questions –  my age and relative health,  what meds I take,  and how much suntan lotion I had ingested.

”Not to worry.”  he said after hearing it was just a dab.

I thanked him and somewhat embarrassed I added,  “I’m sorry if this sounded a little bit crazy,  but believe me I thought it was egg salad!”  

“Oh,  I believe you lady.”  he said,  “You can’t make this stuff up!”

I didn’t tell that Coppertone guy,  but in my head I had already written this story.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

A Thousand Little Touches

My father – six years older than my mother – died in his early 80s.   (See My Dad and the Word Processor,   Saying Farewell to a Special Guy,  Six Pack, My Father, the Outsider Artist,  GP and Turkey and Trimmings with Flu Shot)

My mother,  who it seemed had never been sick a day in her life,  developed a heart condition after he died and survived him by less than three years.  (See My Game Mother,  Elbow Grease,  Still Life and Fluffy and the Alligator Shoes)

In fact it seemed she’d been prescient about her own mortality.   After his death she became depressed and when we reminded her how much she still had to live for – her two daughters and two grandsons –  she said she’d try to stick around,  but just for a few more years.

Then talking about my dad she said what she missed most were those thousand little touches – the warm sweater or mislaid pair of eyeglasses,  or handful of grapes or hot cup of tea,  all lovingly brought to the side of the one who had asked.

As a child I surely took my folks for granted and probably didn’t think much about their marriage.  It wasn’t until I entered the fray myself in that sometimes bloody battle of the sexes,  that I realized what a good and enviable marriage they had.

They certainly had different personas – almost diametrically opposed I would say.   My dad was unpretentious,  peace-loving,  and rather than socializing was happiest at home playing the piano or making art – his two great hobbies.   My mom was quite the opposite – opinionated and always ready for a debate,  gregarious,  and full of energy and wanderlust.

Yet as different as they seemed,   and like all couples they sometimes disagreed and sometimes argued fiercely,  they were wonderful to see together –  demonstrative,  often holding hands,  and undoubtedly very much in love. (See Around the World in 80 Days)

Although I don’t profess to know the secret of their happy marriage,  I’m sure if there’s a Great Beyond they’re out there together,  still hand-in-hand!

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

I am so grateful to Retrospect for giving me the avenue and the structure to bring these stories to life.
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Obit

I was at work when my mother called to tell me Ruth M had died.   My mom was at the age when she read the obituaries every day looking for the names of friends and acquaintances,  and had seen Ruth’s name in the morning paper.

Ruth was my ex-mother-in-law and I hadn’t seen her since Alan and I divorced more than a dozen years earlier,  and I had no desire to go to her funeral.   But nevertheless I asked my mother where and when the service would be.

She told me it was that morning and where,  and when we hung up I called the funeral home.

“I knew the deceased,”  I told the receptionist,  “but I can’t make the service.  When it’s over please give her son Alan my name and number,  and ask him to call me.”

An hour later my phone rang.   Alan apparently had gotten my message.

“Hi Pussycat,  want me to pick up a quart of milk on my way home?”. he asked.

Alan was living in California and had just flown to New York for the funeral.   He said that shiva for his mother would be that night at his brother Zach’s Manhattan apartment and he hoped I’d come.  I told my husband I was meeting an old friend,  and I went.

Zach greeted me warmly at the door,  and then I saw Alan walking towards us.  We embraced and found a private spot to talk.  We spoke about our life together,  our lives since,  and how good it was to see each other again.   But after a long,  open-hearted  conversation I knew we’d never have resolved our differences,  and divorce had been the right decision.

Then heading home from Zach’s apartment an hour or so later it hit me – despite our long talk at her shiva,  neither Alan nor I had even mentioned his mother.

And although one should never speak ill of the dead,  the truth is –  as both Alan and I knew –  Ruth had been one battle axe of a mother-in-law!

(For more about me and Alan see Shuffling Off to Buffalo,  My Snowy Year in Buffalo,  Flowers on the Windshield, and  Both Sides Now.)

– Dana Susan Lehrman