Surviving Mistakes

It’s been a challenging time.  Between my tendonitis, the state of the country, the pandemic keeping us close to home, concern for our children and grandchildren’s safety, and more has left me exhausted. On the positive side, I am one of the lucky ones, safely inside with plenty of food and no worries about how to pay the rent.  The world has turned in monstrous ways. Separate factions are digging deeper holes than ever before with no stopping in sight. 

I remember when my vote mattered but I wasn’t frightened when the man (it was always a man for president until 2016) I supported did not win.  The other guy was ok enough.  That was true for most of the choices I faced at election time.  But that’s no longer true.  The divide is so deep it’s a bottomless cavern.  And the challenge we all face is to figure out how we will pull ourselves together after November 3.

The 2016 election was filled with mistakes. Some sat it out, others voted for change with no idea as to what the change might entail.  We’re all human, given to making mistakes.  I’m sorry I didn’t fight as hard for Hillary as I did for Obama.  Others regret that they voted for Trump without vetting him thoroughly. And here we are mired in bitterness and anger that isn’t helping anyone. What we need to do is forgive ourselves, move on and not make the same mistake twice.  Make sure we vote and stand up for decency, respect and kindness – a concept that seems to have lost its way.  Human beings make mistakes – it’s part of our DNA.  Learning from them is what matters most.

Here's a little story I wrote years ago, but the message remains relevant.

Slogging Home

This May day is unusually warm and I am uncomfortably hot in my dress clothes.  I’ve just returned from the end of the year thank you teacher luncheon that the PTA provides.  My empty casserole is crusty and I place it in the sink to soak.  I hear water spraying in the wrong place and discover one of the pool vacuum tails stuck in a filter near the deep edge.  Having perspired through lunch in a stuffy gym, I had imagined an afternoon swim in a clean pool.  What I see is murky, leafy and buggy.

  

So what else is new I think as I walk towards the unreliable machine.  I bend down to release the plastic tube, directing the spray towards the bushes.  Stuck.  I bend farther down and pull harder.  Still stuck.  I bend just a little farther and in the longest instant realization of my life, I am falling into the pool in my favorite pant suit and new shoes.  Now I am in cool water, drenched, hoping to somehow disappear into the basement before anyone notices I’ve gone swimming fully clothed.  Slogging into the kitchen feeling as if I have instantly doubled my weight, I am just about to escape unnoticed when the back door bell rings.  I open it to see the air conditioning service man standing there, mouth open.  

 “Yes?”   I say without explanation creating an instant puddle on the kitchen floor.

“I’m here to check the compressor-where is the unit?  In the back?”   He averts gaze, laughing, pinching his mouth together, smothering a snort.

“Next to the fence, north side of the house.”  I slam the door shut and slip down the back stairs to the basement laundry room.  I am freezing and the clothes fight as I peel myself free and slip into Ben s cutoffs and T shirt fresh from the dryer.

“Everything checks out fine,” the repairman calls out as he passes the back door, winking and nodding his head.  I fix myself a cup of coffee and take two deep breaths before the phone rings.

        

“Mom?” Becky, eight years old, has an edge to her young voice.

       

“Hi honey.  Where are you?”  I try to sound cheery and calm.

“ I’m at the ice skating arena where I am supposed to be.  Where are you?” The edge has sharpened.

        

“I’m here at home, of course. Where you just reached me.”  My forehead is furrowed as I brush the hair out of my eyes.  “What s up?”

“What s up is because you are supposed to be here.  I’ve been waiting for half an hour.  It’s your day to pick up.  It’s Wednesday.”   Becky s voice cracks and I can see those stormy, teary eyes glaring at me through the phone.  

I tell her I am on the way, that I am sorry and will be there in ten minutes.  I can hear those three other little girls in the carpool telling their mothers I was late again.  I close my eyes and picture these women complaining to their husbands over dinner about my unreliability.  I wonder if my impaired judgment and memory loss will ever recover itself. And I hope this is a mistake I will not make again.

Rebeccah, 1983