Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life: A Memoir

A Amy For a while I wished my name was spelled Aimee; it seemed so much more original, innovative, so chock-full of vowels. I like that my name can spell May and yam. When I was growing up, my parents would sing the old song “Once in Love with Amy.” I always liked when they did that. In my dating years, the song was “Amie,” by Pure Prairie League. Boy: (singing) “Amie / What you wanna do?” I always liked that little serenade as well. The Japanese word amai means the feeling of being cherished and expectation to be loved. The amygdala is the emotional center of the brain. People close to me call me Aim, and that feels affectionate and validating; conversely, I am wary of people I’ve just met who are prematurely chummy and refer to me that way. I’ve been signing my name like this since the summer after seventh grade, when I invented it at overnight camp sitting on my top bunk. School assignment, first grade. 36 The amygdala acts as the storehouse of emotional memory. Without the amygdala, life is stripped of personal meaning; all passion depends on it.   Amy Rosenthal My father-in-law informed me that my married name could produce these two anagrams: Hearty Salmon. Nasty Armhole. I cannot tell you how much I love that.   Answering Machine In most cases, it is more satisfying to get a friend’s answering machine and leave a cheery, tangible trace of your sincere commitment to the Friendship than it is to engage in actual conversation.   Anxious, Things That Make Me TRAIN SCHEDULES I have to look real close at the columns and small type, and keep double-checking it, as I could be misreading a departure time; a centimeter to the left or right and you’re in the entirely wrong little box/column. Even after I’ve confirmed that there’s an 8:06 leaving Chicago’s Northwestern Station, I’ll pull the crinkly little schedule out of my bag and check one more time. And then, as the final coup de grâce, I’ll turn to some guy waiting on the platform and ask, “You’re waiting for the 8:06, right?” VENDING MACHINES Again, I have to double-, triple-check. Okay, it’s A5 for the Bugles. Is that right? A5? I don’t want to read the codes wrong and end up with the Flaming Hot Cheetos. But then, what a relief when the Bugles tumble down. Yes! I knew it was A5! BIBLIOGRAPHIES All those commas. Last name of author, comma. First name, comma. Then name of book, underlined. Name of publisher, not underlined. Page numbers, then period. Or is it comma? Writing the paper itself was difficult but manageable. But that bibliography always made my body clench up. To be in that hyperconcentrated mode was nerve-racking. The whole time I’m picturing my teacher reading it, looking for a misplaced comma, eager to tarnish my hard work with red pen marks. RUNNING INTO SOMEONE It could be someone I know rather well—an old work colleague, a second cousin—but for some reason I panic and completely blank on their name, and then, at the last possible heart-racing second, the name will come to me. ALLOTTING ENOUGH TIME TO MAKE FLIGHT I always work backward. Okay, the flight leaves at 11:15, so I should be at the airport at 9:15. That means I should leave the house at 8:30— no, play it safe, could be a lot of traffic, say 8:15. That means I need to get up at 7:30; that gives me 45 minutes to get ready and finish any last minute packing. As soon as I’ve come to this conclusion, I’ll immediately repeat the whole internal dialogue-calculations, see if I come up with the same time estimates. I’ll do this at least a couple more times the day before I leave, one of the times being that night when I set my alarm clock. Approachers People are either approachers or avoiders. Approachers will dart across a crowded room and enthusiastically state the obvious: “Oh, my God. It’s you! We went to camp together! I haven’t seen you since we were ten!” An avoider, in the same situation, would make no effort whatsoever to reconnect. They reason: So we once knew each other. That in and of itself is not interesting. I have no desire to acknowledge that we once, long ago, roasted marshmallows together. It will only be awkward to make small talk, and our shared campfire history is of no consequence. I see you. And you see me. That is enough. And while the avoider chooses not to approach, the approacher really has no conscious choice in the matter; approaching is just what they do.   As As self-conscious as rearranging what’s on your coffee table before guests arrive—putting Art Forum and Milan Kundera’s latest novel on top of People magazine and The Berenstain Bears Potty Book. As specific as a mosquito bite on a pinky toe knuckle. As startling as coming home from vacation and seeing yourself in your own bathroom mirror and only then realizing just how tan you really are. As out of place as a heap of snow that remains by a street lamp on a sunny April day long after all the other snow has melted.   Ayn Rand Ayn Rand seems so mysterious, privy, snobby—in a cool way. I’m pretty sure it’s the y. See also: Letters   B Bad Movie Upon hearing that a Friend of mine saw a bad movie, a movie I knew would be bad and never would have gone to see myself, I think, Of course that movie sucked. How could you have thought it wouldn’t? You are sheeplike to have gone to see it in the first place. This is definitely going to affect our Friendship. See also: Calling Someone’s Name; Smooth Jazz   Bagpipers They have hired bagpipers to play at the wedding. There are two of them, in full Scottish regalia, standing in the Weld playing. It is a most unusual image, these two men in kilts by a tree, performing for us. Even more startling is how, after only five minutes or so, we are used to them. There is nothing unusual about them anymore; they are now part of the scenery, nothing more, nothing less. I imagine if they started hurling eggplants at each other, we would, in no time, mentally readjust and be rather ho-hum about it.   Birthday I like my birthday, the actual date April 29—it seems right, like it matches me, the capital A of April, the way the number 29 feels, the whole spring flavor. I am very glad I was born and definitely appreciate the ongoing alive status that each birthday brings, but I do not typically get into the animated birthday hoopla spirit. I do recognize, however, that for me it is a fine line between not wanting to make a big deal about my birthday and also wanting family and certain Friends to dote enough to satisfy some nebulous quality/quantity acknowledged-my-birthday barometer. When I was a kid, my mom always made sure my brother and sisters and I woke up to birthday signs and her famous Krouse Klown drawing. I tried instating the Rosenthal Rabbit for my own kids, but it fizzled out because in my mind it never felt as special or as important as the Krouse Klown; it felt fraudulent and satirical. For as many April 29s as I can remember, my mom has presented me with a poem, a tender, rhyming summary of my life up to that point, and it is these gifts of verse written in her lovely Ann Krouse script that are the centerpiece of each birthday.   Birthmark I have a birthmark on my left arm. As a child I thought it looked like a bear, or Africa, depending on the angle. I would often draw an eye and a mouth on it; sometimes I would allow a Friend to do so. To look at my birthmark was to remind myself that I was me.   Blush I blush easily.   Bowling It would be difficult to convince me that leaning has no effect whatsoever on the outcome of my bowling.   BOZO CIRCUS My husband and I were out with another couple—two messy-haired, way-smarter-than-us professor types. It came up that one of their Friends had just won the Nobel Prize. You guys actually know someone who won the Nobel Prize?! That’s amazing, I said. In a matter-of-fact way, they added, Actually, we seem to know about twenty or so people who have won a Nobel Prize. Well, I said, I have never won the Nobel Prize, but when I was four, I was picked for the Grand Prize Game on Bozo Circus. They were incredulous. God! What was it like? I always wanted to be on that show. For them, the Nobel Prize, while a nice honor, no longer loomed as the powerful end-all. But my brush with Bozo—now, that was really something. I told them all about the magic arrows; how I made it to bucket number three; and that I had walked away with a year’s supply of pudding, an Archie board game, and panty hose for my mom.   Brodsky, Joseph I have just started Joseph Brodsky’s book On Grief and Reason. Let me say I have only read one essay in a collection of thirty, and I flipped through the book, sizing up the chapters, actually counting the pages, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7—yes, this one’s good, it only has seven pages. This hardly counts as being familiar with Joseph Brodsky, reading seven pages and the jacket bio, yet I can tell you that his essay In Praise of Boredom is one of the best things I have ever read; that I think you would be stimulated and moved by it; that I’d be happy to direct you to a copy of it; and that I now know this of Brodsky: he really liked Robert Frost. He was particularly infatuated with the line The only way out is through. He quoted it in this one essay, and then when I flipped through the book looking for another essay I wasn’t intimidated by, I found the same quote again. That’s how it is. That’s how it always is. In a handful of pages we can see a writer’s defining twitch: One has a fondness for ellipses; one constantly references his jumpiness (Thurber); another fancies single-word sentences; another has a sloppy habit of overusing the word surprisingly; still another leans on a Robert Frost quote. Perhaps Brodsky never thought the two essays, which contained that reference, would end up in a bound volume. (One would have hoped the editor would have picked up on this, and at least separated the essays more substantially. It’s tragic really. When my work is left to be poked through, will it be painfully obvious that I gravitated toward semicolons, and frequently wrote about coincidences and doughnuts with sprinkles?) If Brodsky used that quote in those two essays, we can be sure he brought it up at dinner parties; at a literary conference in Turin; over coffee with an old chum from the University of Michigan. Right now I think his book will change my life. Brodsky makes me feel alive. He seems to know things. His knowing will allow me to know. He will beam me to a higher place—a place that’s vaguely different, sharper, where the dial’s been shifted just a notch to the right (that’s all it took!) and everything clicked into place. This happens to be my immediate reaction every time someone or something truly gets me. I think, Oh, this new book/new Friend/new sweater will alter the course of my life in a profound way. It was like that even when I was young, with a small box. I remember the power of receiving a certain small keepsake box. I excitedly put all my things in it, all the things that mattered to me, all the things that had meaning; nothing mattered anymore but what was in that box. But then after one, two, maybe four days tops, I grew tired of the box, or the hinge broke, or my disloyalty made itself evident when I chose not to take it to a sleepover at Rosalie Press’s house. Any number of scenarios may have occurred that ultimately led to the same feeling of disenchantment. Brodsky is my new box.   Broken The CD player in our kitchen causes the first three songs to skip. The CD player in the baby’s room no longer functions at all, although up until recently, at least the radio worked. I’ve broken every computer I’ve ever owned. My current printer and fax programs are incompatible. I jam the Xerox machine nearly every time I touch it. I go through Walkmans like paper towels. The screen on our back porch is so badly ripped that the kids don’t even bother opening the actual door, they simply lift the big, detached flap and walk right through it. The children’s bathtub drain is partially clogged with small toys; actually, there is no real drain there—it was broken years ago and now we compensate by stuffing a washcloth in there, every single night. Their double stroller has snapped in half. There are long black wires hanging from the ceiling in my office because we still haven’t installed the lights and fans. The fan light in the master bedroom never once worked. The light switch in the baby’s room has never once worked. Our beautiful antique chair in the family room has had visibly broken springs for half a year now. I just noticed that one of the handlebars on my treadmill fell off. The boys broke my favorite barrette. I broke the glass serving dish with the decorative dolphin trim. We do not have a single glass left from our bridal registry.   Broker It is weird and unsettling that a person who is hired to handle your money, make wise decisions about it, and, ostensibly, keep you from losing it is called a broker.   Brother My brother, who grew up with three sisters, was I won’t say how many years old when he finally realized that he did not have to wrap the towel around his chest when he came out of the shower.   Busy How you been? Busy.   How’s work? Busy.   How was your week? Good. Busy. You name the question, “Busy” is the answer. Yes, yes, I know we are all terribly busy doing terribly important things. But I think more often than not, “Busy” is simply the most acceptable knee-jerk response. Certainly there are more interesting, more original, and more accurate ways to answer the question how are you? How about: I’m hungry for a waffle; I’m envious of my best Friend; I’m annoyed by everything that’s broken in my house; I’m itchy. Yet busy stands as the easiest way of summarizing all that you do and all that you are. I am busy is the short way of saying— suggesting—my time is filled, my phone does not stop ringing, and you (therefore) should think well of me. Have people always been this busy? Did cavemen think they were busy, too? This week is crazy—I’ve got about ten caves to draw on. Can I meet you by the fire next week? I have a hunch that there is a direct correlation between the advent of coffee chains and the increase in busyness. Look at us. We’re all pros now at hailing a cab/pushing a grocery cart/operating a forklift with a to-go cup in hand. We’re skittering about like hyperactive gerbils, high not just on caffeine but on caffeine’s luscious by-product, productivity. Ah, the joy of doing, accomplishing, crossing off. As kids, our stock answer to most every question was nothing. What did you do at school today? Nothing. What’s new? Nothing. Then, somewhere on the way to adulthood, we each took a 180-degree turn. We cashed in our nothing for busy. I’m starting to think that, like youth, the word nothing is wasted on the young. Maybe we should try reintroducing it into our grown-up vernacular. Nothing. I say it a few times and I can feel myself becoming more quiet, decaffeinated. Nothing. Now I’m picturing emptiness, a white blanket, a couple ducks gliding on a still pond. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. How did we get so far from it? See also: Coffee, Stopping for; Crossing Guard; Nothing   Butterfly Once you learn how to draw a butterfly, you just want to keep doing it. There is something calming and satisfying about drawing them. Maybe it has to do with the symmetry, and the curves of the wings.   Butterscotch I love butterscotch but rarely think to seek it out. C Cab of Truck Seeing just the short, truncated nubby front part of a semi-truck (the cab), one is always compelled to point and say look. It’s just an image you can’t get used to. It registers in the brain as funny, odd, on the loose.   Calling Someone’s Name You’re calling someone’s name, trying to get their attention. Perhaps you’re in a crowd. Or they are across the street. Or they went to get popcorn and Raisinets and are now looking for you in the packed movie theater. You cup your hands around your mouth and repeatedly call their name, waving your arm—Here I am—but they don’t hear or see you. No matter who they are—a lawyer, a surgeon, a Latin scholar—they look like an idiot searching for you, craning their head like that, and you question their intelligence. See also: Bad Movie; Smooth Jazz   Capricious I kept a vocabulary journal for a while in my early twenties. I had just added the words capricious and precarious to the list, and while talking to Brian on the phone, I decided to try them out. I said something about life being both capricious and precarious. Knowing me as he did, he immediately picked up this finagled repertoire—my God, I myself could practically see the neon arrows flashing as each word slipped out into the air. Oooooh, fancy words, Amy, he said. I more or less ignored the comment, as a way of implying that I didn’t think one way or the other about these words, that they were just the kinds of bon mots I used all the time now, no biggie. I wished the words would have felt more worn in in my mouth, the way words do after you’ve said them hundreds of time. Table. Melt. Floundering. See, I can say any of those without thinking about them as I say them. But he, Brian, had spotted capricious’ and precarious’ stiffness; in fact, he caught me with the tags on. I think of this every time I use or hear either of those words. [Aside] I added the Capricious entry on the afternoon of April 15, 2003. Later that night, I received an e-mail from Brian. I had not spoken to him in eight years.   Car When I’m in my car and someone lets me in their lane and I not only mouth Thank you to the other driver, but I actually say it out loud—as if they could hear me—I am taken aback, it sounded so goofy, hearing my voice alone in my car.   Car Radio . . . and when you get back in the car, the loudness of the radio startles you. It didn’t seem so loud before because you turned it up gradually throughout the ride.   SOUNDS THAT ARE LOUD THOUGH QUIET A mosquito buzzing in your camping tent at three a.m. A phone that should be ringing but is not. Sitting in the waiting room waiting for a medical procedure and then hearing the nurse call your name. The snipping of scissors cutting your long hair short. The crunching of sitting on your sunglasses. The first time he/she whispers “I love you.” Your four-year-old saying something inappropriate in front of your mother, or someone you hoped would be especially taken with your child and parenting skills. Someone who won’t stop drumming their fingers or tapping their pen on the table.   Your pee when you’re in the stall next to your boss. The unwrapping of a small piece of candy in a place of worship.   Car Wash Every time I go to my local car wash, the owner peers inside, throws his arms up, and says, Oh, Miss—very dirty. Very, very dirty. I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was supposed to bring it in clean.   Catch David threw a crumpled-up piece of paper to me. I caught it, looked at it, then set it down. He then threw a paper clip. Again, I caught it, put it down. Come on, Amy. Don’t you get it?! Throw it back! he yelled. How was I supposed to know that was what he wanted? I am a girl. I do not have the catch gene. Guys have the catch gene. That is why the symbol for male is a circle with an arrow pointing away. It stands for throw the ball.   CD, New I love the moment when I get a new CD and it holds the promise of being the best CD ever—all that potential, so many good songs to fall in love with, the dense liner notes to inspect. But then I realize, This song’s not so great, neither’s the next one— ew, what’s with that harmonica solo?—and in the end I like maybe two songs, love one, and within a few days it disappears under a stack of other loose, orphaned CDs. And going back to those two or three favorite songs—I feel bad listening to them exclusively, that’s somehow cheating. I must listen to the CD in its entirety, to not play favorites so to speak, and when those killer tunes come on, well, I’ve earned the privilege fair and square. This is not unlike my policy of occasionally rotating my least favorite jeans into the mix—There. I wore them. Happy?—and feeling justified the next morning in resorting once again to my beloved worn-in pair.   Chain Letters I despise chain letters. They were amusing once, in third grade. But now I resent the intrusion, the assumption that I will play along, the CAPITAL-LETTER THREATS of what will happen to me if I don’t. When they used to arrive by regular mail, I had a kind of oh geesh reaction; I would feel disappointed in my friend, misunderstood: Doesn’t she know the first thing about me? Doesn’t she know I hate this and that I found it void of meaning, credibility, and beauty? But now when I get these forwarded chain letters in my e-mail, I don’t really feel agitated—I can and do simply delete them in a split second— I feel baffled. Does my friend really have time for this? Does she really believe this? I picture her at her computer, clicking on her address book, wasting minutes from her too-short- as-it-is life.   Change This money was left here intentionally and is specifically for your use. I know it’s not much—perhaps just enough to treat yourself to a cookie, coffee, a lottery ticket, donation to the homeless, a new pair of socks. . . . In any case, I hope it changes your day for the better. All I ask in return is that you let me know how you spend it. You don’t have to sign your name, and a prepaid postcard is included. Enjoy.   Every week, for close to a year, I left an envelope containing this note, some loose change, and a stamped postcard addressed to my P.O. box for a random stranger to discover. I’d like to say that I set out to do this for purely altruistic reasons. But, more accurately, I did it because I’m easily bored/easily amused, and experiments such as this inject a morsel of suspense into the week. That, and I really like getting mail. It was always fun to plan where to leave the envelopes. I sent a few with friends traveling out of town. I left them in phone booths, taxis, and newspaper boxes. I left them on sidewalks, airplanes, and restaurant tables. I left them at a bookstore, a doctor’s office, and a bar mitzvah. Once, at a jazz bar, I watched a bride go into the bathroom, so I casually slipped in behind her and strategically left the envelope for her by the sink. She ran out, waving the envelope and screaming Look at this! to her bridal party. That was a highlight. Though I never did hear from her. I got ten postcards back. I was always amazed when I got a response. And I was always amazed when I didn’t. Responding was nearly effortless, yet most people apparently couldn’t be bothered. I couldn’t help but obsess over this: Did the postcard just get lost in a pile somewhere? Do they vow daily, I’m definitely going to mail this today, but somehow never get around to it? Did they think it was creepy—that they were being followed, or that by mailing the postcard they could be traced? Did they—those slimes—peel the stamp off the postcard for their own use? I’d like to think that how the ten people who returned their cards chose to spend their change said something (profound?) about them, in the same way that whatever poster you hung over your bed in college offered visitors an assessment of Who You Really Are. The responses ranged from the American Dream—“Florida Lottery Ticket for $55 million”—to Zen simplicity— “Bought a piece of fresh fruit.” Two spoke of serendipity: I was walking down North Avenue on June 12 (my birthday), had a fight with my partner, and almost flat broke. I chose to walk down North Avenue because several years ago that street was somewhat inspirational for me and I was thinking, “I dig North Ave.” I met a sweet woman on the street who needed some money—gave it to her. She offered me a beer to celebrate my day—I declined. What an Oprah Winfrey move—you sure you’re not Oprah? Anyhow, thanks for the smile.   And this from Helen, the woman who works in the locker room at my health club: Hello. I’m sorry; I forgot to write for you how I spend money. I found money in locker Sunday when I forgot my money for breakfast. I opened and say thanks God and thanks for you. Helen, Lake Shore Club (you see me in club please).   There was the philanthropist: Donated to Amy Erickson Alternative Cancer Treatment Fund.   And the realist: Thank you for the gift! I added it to my fabulous coin collection, which I keep in an apple cider bottle and which I’ll use to partially finance my upcoming move. Thanks again for your thoughtful offering. Every little bit does help out and it’s so fun to receive help from a stranger.   I gave away between fifty cents and $1.50 each week. In the end, that probably added up to about sixty bucks counting the postage—the amount Bill Gates leaves in those penny dishes by the register. But if a few people got a kick out of it, I’m hoping the mighty karma gods who saw me bite Bobby Bycraft in first grade will now call it a wash. Plus, as I say, I got mail.   Cheek Bouncing I was flipping through the Sunday Magazine and came across an article about a fraudulent high-society woman. Let me see if I can retrace exactly what happened from there. 1. I glanced at the photo. 2. I then glanced over at the headline . . . Caused a Stir in New York Society This Year. 3. Ouch. Good juicy gossip, I thought. 4. Back to headline: Especially When Her Cheeks Started Bouncing. 5. What, her cheeks were bouncing? What’s up with that? 6. Look back at photo. Well, she certainly does have big cheeks. Maybe she had some freaky plastic surgery? And now her cheeks jiggle in a strange way, especially noticeable when she struts into high-society events? Perhaps her cheeks are full of silicone? She could be some kind of spy, in disguise? Or maybe she’s fake, like a robot person? 7. I reread the headline: checks, her checks were bouncing. Okay, that makes a lot more sense. 8. I proceeded to show the article to my husband and my friend John, and strangely enough, they both read it the same way. Cheeks started bouncing, they’d say, and kinda chuckle snort. It must be something about the smiling, cheeky photo that triggers the brain to read the second c in checks as an e (and they are very similar-looking letters to begin with, even more so in the New York Times’s typeface). I’m pretty certain that without the photo, there wouldn’t be any confusion with the cheek/check headline. See also: Farmer; Words That Look Similar   Chef Hat Surely they can design more flattering chef hats.   Chicago Fire Justin (age six): We saw the Chicago Fire on our field trip. Me: You did? You mean, you saw something about it downtown? Justin: No, Mom. You don’t understand. The Chicago Fire is a statue. Me: I see. You know, Justin, I think you missed the Chicago Fire part of your class when you were sick last week. Justin: The Chicago Fire was last week?   Childhood Memories Chronology of Events 1965 Amy Krouse is born, April 29.   1967 Amy’s sister Beth is born, October 16.   1968 Beth is in crib. Amy asks if she is thirsty. Pours glass of water on Beth’s head.   1969–1977 When Amy is home sick, her mother rubs her back while taking her temperature and sings the song she always sings when Amy is not feeling well. She sings so nice and soft.   I’m a little doll that has just been broken, Fallen from my mommy’s knees. I’m a little doll that has just been broken, Won’t you love me please?   1969 Goes to Kiddie Kollege for preschool.   1970 Amy’s brother, Joe, is born December 16, two and a half months prematurely.   1970 Practices swimming in pool with father. She starts on stairs, he stands waiting a few feet away. Just as she approaches him, he takes a step back. He keeps doing this. He is encouraging about it, but she is nervous, out of breath. Doesn’t want to keep going, doesn’t want to be pushed to limit, feels misled—Don’t do that!—just wants to be swept up in his arms when she reaches him. The relief, the snugness, the glory, of finally being in Dad’s safe arms.   1970–1974 Gets to stir father’s coffee. Watches the cream change the color to light brown.   1970–1975 Father occasionally comes home from work with box of Jujubes as special treat.   1970–1980 Gets to pick out a Dum Dum lollipop from the bottom file-cabinet drawer afrer every visit to nice, bald pediatrician Dr. Nachman. Typically chooses butterscotch flavor; hates the root-beer one.1970–1980 Amy falls asleep in car on way home from trip downtown or dinner at relatives’ house. Remarkable to her that she awakes just as they enter her subdivision, a minute from home. Seems to Amy that she has a talent for knowing precisely how long to sleep, exactly when to wake up. Not until she is older does she realize it was the motion of going fast on the highway that lulled her to sleep, that the car’s slowing down on small neighborhood streets was what stirred her awake.   1970–1980 Amy is served chicken pot pie when her parents go out on Saturday night. Steaming-hot cream sauce scorches roof of her mouth.   1971 Amy invents a game with sister Beth: Ooga. Ooga It. Odd sort of running game with rules that are unspoken, nonsensical, and completely adhered to. They play it for hours, screaming, “Ooga! Ooga it!”   1971–1979 Amy watches parents slow-dance in kitchen. Covers face with hands. Feels embarrassed but happy.   1971 First grade. In music class with Mrs. Swanson. Amy by mistake adds extra syllable to remember, says rememember. When their teacher Mrs. Stern comes to pick up the class, Mrs. Swanson asks Amy to say rememember again for Mrs. Stern. They both think it’s so cute. Amy feels that reenactment is strangely forced but likes the attention.   1971 Overhears mother on phone saying, “I think this summer I am going to send Amy to c-a-m-p,” and figures out what it spells.   1971 Takes turns showing privates with boy across street in his wooded backyard. Feels odd, devious, interesting. Recognizes that exposed genitals emit certain energy. In the end, feels she has been swayed. Glad when he later moves away.   1971 Steve C., a boy in her grade, dies in a car accident. Seems unreal, spooky. Haunted by idea of him gone. Thinks about him, the absence of this once-alive boy, for rest of life.   1971–1972 Amy goes to Florida to see grandmother. Grandmother’s friend Gladys has them to dinner. Radishes on the salad—Amy tries for the first time and loves them. Flurry of comments about radishes, older women say how unusual it is for child to like radishes. Year later, Amy returns. Again they have dinner at Gladys’s. Again Gladys serves radishes, now in Amy’s honor. These radishes taste different—bitter, sharp, stinging. Amy confused; other radishes so sweet. But Gladys served them especially for her, remembered how much she loved them. Amy doesn’t have heart or courage to speak up; forces herself to eat radishes.   1972 Amy rubs her stomach real lightly until she gets goose bumps. Puts her in a trance.   1972 Amy realizes one night at dinner that ribs are ribs, as in ribs like people have ribs, ribs are the ribs of an animal.  WHAT MY CHILDHOOD TASTED LIKE Item:  Fruit cocktail on top of cottage cheese Notes:   Liked the grapes and maraschino cherries   Item: Marinated flank steak Notes:  Liked the dark, crispy stringy ends   Item: Hot dog paprikosh Notes:  Especially good with very cold applesauce   Item: Barbecue ribs Notes:  Mesmerized by my mom gnawing on bones   Item: Heart-shaped hamburgers Notes:  What my mom made on Valentine’s Day   Item: M&M’s Notes:  Always in the candy dish on Thanksgiving   Item: Parsley Notes: Dipped in salt water at Passover seder   Item: Homemade cheesecake w/ strawberry topping Notes: Picking at leftovers in the fridge, chunks of the graham cracker crust, that aluminum tin   Item: Triscuits Notes: Endless handfuls   Item: Slice of American cheese Notes: The one thing we were allowed to eat before dinner; everything else would apparently “spoil our appetite”   Item: Grand Marnier soufflé Notes: What my parents were baking late one night; I woke up for some reason and was allowed to stay up with them and help. Very big deal, very special treat. Felt like I was really in on something cool, as my other three sibs slept upstairs. This soufflé thing seemed very exotic, grown-up. Seemed like midnight. Was probably 9 p.m.   Item: Bazooka gum Notes: The idea of “allowing six to eight weeks for delivery” on all Bazooka Joe prizes seemed like an unimaginable eternity.   Item: Baskin-Robbins mint chocolate chip ice cream cake Notes: Hated mint and was always disappointed when the mom walked out