We were only three hours into Lent when The Daughter killed
Little Pinkie.
The opening scene:
3:00 A.M., Ash Wednesday. The Husband and I are in deep sleep. Sorry to mix the
seasonal metaphors, but “visions of sugarplums” were definitely dancing in our
heads.
Then, the phone rings.
The phone ringing in the dead of night is never
heartwarming. At the least: it’s annoying and ruins your night’s sleep. At the
worst: someone is dead. Or in distress. Deep distress. Because no one (!) would
call you at that hour unless there was a big problem.
As the parent of adult children who live in cities far away
from us, the Dead of Night Phone Call is particularly dreadful. Several times
now it’s been The Son, who lives in Los Angeles, where for very good reason the
car insurance rates for young men in their twenties are the highest in the
nation. (I cannot tell you how anxious it makes me to think of him driving on
the L.A. freeways. I try not to think
about it, which helps. Denial is not just a river in Egypt.) Thankfully, those
calls from The Son, while they all involved car trouble/accidents did not
involve death or injury.
They involved money. Inconvenience.
Phew.
Last night, however, The Daughter called. It was the wee
hours of Wednesday, she had work the next day, and she was home in her
apartment. The first thing I thought was, “Fire?”
But no: it was a clumsy accident. She’d gotten up from bed
and knocked over a glass of water on her nightstand. It spilled everywhere …
including onto her laptop. Her brand new Mac, which she’d purchased in pink.
Affectionately dubbed Little Pinkie.
Initially, Little Pinkie appeared unharmed, and fired right
up when she opened it. But after drying off everything else (I won’t detail how
far the deluge extended) she noticed the screen had gone black. And eventually
Little Pinkie failed to charge.
Query: why a call to mom and dad in Maine at this point? But
after googling on her iPhone What to do
when you spill water on your laptop? and not coming up with much besides
burying it in a Tupperware filled with dry rice she resorted to us. And after
crashing over each other to find the phone in the dark, and taking a few
calming breaths once we realized no one had died, we also suggested rice. Which
was not helpful. Apparently no one in that apartment really cooks (she and her
roommates excel at takeout) and there was no arroz to be found, something I find fairly incredible but that’s
another story …
We talked through strategies for resuscitating Little
Pinkie, finally settling on going back to sleep (!) and hoping a visit to the
Genius Bar at the Boylston Street Apple store the next day would help. But when
we hung up I could tell The Daughter still felt terrible. Purchasing this
computer required no small chunk of change from her just-out-of-college budget,
and she panicked, wondering how she would complete her grad school applications
and meet various other professional requirements without it.
Several hours
later: dawn. I stumble from bed, make coffee. Heavenly coffee. I pull
out my schedule for the day, which includes 1. Working on my latest novel; 2.
Collecting and delivering the evening meal for the local homeless shelter; 3.
Walking the dog; 4. Hearing back from The Daughter re. Little Pinkie; 5. Buying
some of my husband’s favorite candy from Wilbur’s Chocolates and sharing a
fun Valentine’s Day dinner with him; 6. Getting ashes.
Because today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. The
kickoff to the season of repentance and getting one’s spiritual house in order,
the six-week lead up to Easter, which is the culmination of All Things Christian.
At some point today I’ll go to church where a priest or other minion will smear
greasy black ashes on my forehead and intone, “Remember man/woman that you are
dust and unto dust you shall return.”
I’ve always found Ash Wednesday to be grim. Yes: we know
we’re all going to die and rot some day. What of it? Should we walk around with
our heads down waiting for the meteor to strike, or a truck to ram us on the
highway? I’ve always found the practice of ashes to contain a veiled threat: Behave. Judgment is around the corner.
For some reason, as I was pouring coffee this morning and
contemplating the day ahead, a different thought occurred. It was somewhat Mary
Oliver-inspired, more What do you plan to
do with your one wild and precious life? and less hellfire-and-brimstone.
To contemplate my life in ashes is to put everything in
perspective. It’s not a death sentence: it’s a gift. Because every moment I’ve
got on this side of the game is an opportunity. To write another book. To eat
chocolate with my husband. To speak with my daughter on the phone, albeit at
3:00 A.M. To have a car that works and the wherewithal to bring hot food to
people who need it.
Ash Wednesday is not a threat of impending doom. It’s a
reminder that life is precious. And while we can’t control much of what
happens to us, we can control how we respond to it, and choose how we want to
live. With fear, dread and panic … or joy and optimism?
Onward! My
agent, Edite Kroll, likes to conclude our conversations and emails with the
invocation, “Onward!” I love that. It promises good work and progress ahead.
With that in mind, I called The Daughter. She was already at work; she’d gotten
an early start so she can clock off early and get to the Apple store.
“You know, a computer can be replaced,” I told her. “You’ve
saved your important documents. You aren’t hurt. You have a job and a good
place to live. This is an inconvenience. A blip.”
“I know,” she agreed. “I love you. Sorry I woke you guys
up.”
Before we ended our call I inquired after the computer. It
still refuses to respond to the “on” button.
It appears, at this point, that The Pink is no more. We’ll
see what the geniuses say. We'll figure it out. Meanwhile: onward!
