The location:

The World of Coca-Cola in Atlanta, Georgia. At the end of the tour, we had the opportunity to sample various Coca-Cola products from around the world, always a highlight of visits there. We were happily tasting away, as we always do. Then we came to it. The Beverly.

The scene:

My sister, Chepin, being the sensible mother and aunt she is, warned the kids that the Beverly (a drink sold in Italy) was vile and they really didn’t want to try that one. The kids, being kids, didn’t believe her. So Chepin decided to pull one over on them. She agreed very seriously that they were onto her; they had caught her trying to talk them out of a tasty, refreshing drink.

Chepin lined up those gullible kids and gave them each a cup, making them wait until they had all been served so they could discover the Beverly’s deliciousness in unison. Four eager little faces, standing side by side, waited impatiently for the cue to take a sip. When Chepin gave the signal, four eager little hands tilted their cups up for a swallow. Four eager little throats gulped it down. A few delayed reaction seconds later, those four eager faces turned to grimaces of nauseous horror at precisely the same instant. Then four sets of feet fled together to the nearest garbage can to dump out what was left in their cups, and four poor little bodies contorted as they hopped around trying to spit the awful lingering taste out of their mouths.

And four gleeful parents laughed so hard they cried over the perfectly synchronized reaction.

This memory still cracks me up when I think of it. To this day I still kick myself for not having brought a video camera to capture that unplanned practical joke and the kids’ viral-video-worthy response.

And the conversation that led to the memory? Noah out of the blue claimed that actually he LIKED the Beverly. I can’t wait to test that claim the next time we’re in Atlanta. How soon they forget.

You could say I’m a lifelong fan. I was introduced to the music of Billy Joel at a young age, the proud owner of vinyl records like “Glass Houses” and “An Innocent Man.” But it wasn’t until I first heard an older album, “The Stranger,” one memorable summer during high school that I became permanently hooked on this song-writing, piano-playing genius. Over the next several years, I acquired a collection of nearly all of his work through whatever means possible. Many on cassette tapes copied from college friends, which was all my limited budget could afford at the time.

Together with some of those very same college friends, I leaped at the chance to attend my first Billy Joel concert in the midst of studying for finals just before Christmas break of my sophomore year. I scraped together every last penny I had to reimburse the person in charge of buying the tickets, then used my dad’s credit card to cover the living expenses that the diverted cash otherwise should have gone toward that month. The credit card was only to be used for “emergencies,” but anyone could see that this qualified as an emergency. (Note to Daddy: Um, I might owe you a few dollars plus 19 years’ worth of interest.)

The concert was to take place at the Worcester Centrum in Worcester, MA, a good hour from Boston. The transportation there soon became an issue since none of us had a car and no rental company we could find would rent to drivers under 21. Eventually we did find a car (exactly how is one of the faulty points in my memory), so when the big night finally arrived we piled in, drove to Worcester, and had a wonderful time.

Under normal circumstances, the story would end there. But one of our party, the friend of a friend, suggested that if we hung around outside the arena long enough after the concert, we might have the opportunity to actually meet the object of our admiration. She claimed to have successfully done this before, and being a group unopposed to the prospect of an adventure, we followed her lead. Like criminals, we methodically scoped the exterior of the building, searching for clues as to which unmarked door would be the one he would most likely exit from. Eventually we found a large rolling door that masked an interior garage. An eagle eye among us spotted a tiny hole in the door, so we did what any respectable spy would do. We peered in. It was clear there was much activity inside.

“This is it,” our experienced post-concert celebrity stalking friend was sure. “Looks like they’ll be driving. We’ll have to follow him.” We quickly retrieved our car and returned to wait for his eventual departure. Almost certainly we were illegally parked as we sat poised to follow in a flash.

Finally, it seemed our patience had paid off. The door rolled up, and out crawled a limo. Our designated driver prepared to gun the accelerator.

“That’s not him,” our expert friend guessed. “It’s probably the band. Or maybe a decoy. Let’s wait.” Then another limo. “Still not him.” We waited some more.

The third time proved to be the charm. The door rolled open once more, and this time an entourage of police cars surrounding a nondescript black van pulled out. We had our man. The chase was on. The police escorts flipped on their flashing lights and did their best to ditch groupies like us, but we kept pace every step of the way—running red lights, making illegal U-turns, and speeding down the highway all the way back to Boston. I think we broke every traffic law in the book. Billy Joel could get away with it, because he had police escorts leading the way. We did not. But we followed in civilized hot pursuit with nary a close call.

At last we arrived at Billy Joel’s destination, the Four Seasons hotel in Boston. As his van pulled into the porte cochere, a car immediately swung behind him to block entry from lunatics like us who managed to keep up for the entire drive. But that didn’t stop this troupe of devoted fans. We simply parked in the middle of the street, and four car doors flew open as we all sprinted to catch up to the legend before he went inside.

Fortunately, I had the foresight to retrieve both my newly purchased concert T-shirt and my ticket stub as I sprang from the car, and had both handy to be signed. I got my treasured autographs, but I’m embarrassed to say that smooth 19-year-old me turned into a stupefied puddle of stage fright who could barely squeak out a high pitched “thank you sooooooo much.”

And of all things, at my big opportunity to impress the Piano Man with my intellect and maturity, I had to know if the pen he was using was a permanent marker. It made a difference, after all, in whether or not I could ever wash the autographed T-shirt. As if I would actually risk wearing it once it bore his signature! I asked the question, and knew as soon as it came out of my mouth that it was a dumb one. I don’t even remember if he responded. Perhaps to this day he remembers it as one of the stupidest, most irrelevant questions he was ever asked.

On March 2, 2009, nearly 20 years later, I’m going to see Billy Joel in concert again. For the fourth time. I’ve never had a repeat opportunity to meet him and redeem myself, but maybe, just maybe, if I skulk around the Jacksonville Veterans Memorial Arena afterward looking for garage doors with pinholes and nondescript black vans with police escorts, I’ll have my chance once again.

Whatever pearls of wisdom my dad was actually trying to impart have long since fled my brain. All I can say with certainty is that an invitation from dear dad to accompany him solo on some short errand or another was a one-way ticket to the dreaded car lecture.

For some reason, my dad has always loved to dispense “advice” to captive audiences in moving vehicles. And, strangely, I always kind of liked it. Even though I can’t recall what any of the actual lectures were about. It’s not that I wasn’t listening, because I usually was, even when I was defensively interrupting with profound rebuttals that went something like, “I know! I KNOW!” to fend off the unsolicited intrusion into my teenage life.* It’s just that more meaningful to me in the long term is the quality time spent together. I always jumped at the chance for those short errands, even though I knew that a lecture was inevitably part of the deal.

My dad still loves to give advice and I still pretend to agree. Usually followed immediately by doing whatever I want however I was going to do it in the first place.  I still love those car lectures, though. Just don’t anyone tell him I said so.

* Not that I ever claim superior knowledge now. Of course not. Never. I am absolutely certain that I have not done such a thing in at least the last 24 hours.

It rained. Oh, how it rained. It was the best day of my life.

The day began with an early call for Kent and his groomsmen, who honored a family tradition with a round of golf on the big day. Meanwhile, I and my bridesmaids had a morning packed with manicures and brunch before I headed off to have my hair perfectly coiffed, all the better to show off the handmade heirloom crown that my mother had designed and painstakingly created just for me.

Then, the rain came. Yet in what I can only describe as a providential sign of God’s approval of our union, the rain miraculously paused its deluge just as we arrived at the church. And just long enough to get the wedding party and our finery indoors before resuming its pummeling.

As I began to dress and primp inside, in a gown befitting Cinderella at the ball, the videographer interviewed my bridesmaids for the wedding video. Without exception, they all noted my calm. But I couldn’t understand their amazement over my lack of nerves. There were never any cold feet on the part of this bride, who knew beyond any doubt that a certain golf-playing groom was her future, and who was not about to let anxiety over unimportant details turn her attention away from the handsome man who would be waiting for her at the end of the aisle.

The ceremony was simple, but poignant, and very much a family affair. Kent’s cousin, a minister, officiated at the church Kent grew up in. The music was provided by another cousin, an accomplished pianist. A family friend and longtime member of the church sang a beautiful Lord’s Prayer, quite possibly the best rendition I have ever heard. And Kent’s brother serenaded us with Edelweiss, special to us as the first song Kent had ever sung to me when we were dating. During the song, those in the front rows could see clearly that Kent was singing along, just to me, so only I could hear. And he was crying.

There were many wet eyes in the church that evening. Several guests told me afterward that they had never seen a groom more obviously in love. One weeping guest said ours was the only wedding she’d ever cried at, and it was clear from her still brimming eyes and running mascara that she did not mean just a single tear or two. Over the years she continues to maintain that she still never cries at other weddings, not even those of her own son and daughter.

Later, we partied. Ah, the party. It was a grand event, with every last detail planned by my mother, a former event coordinator. The reception was held at a local Italian restaurant, but to call it merely a restaurant does not do it justice. It was a beautiful destination built in the style of a European opera house, complete with a fountain outside and murals adorning the interior walls and ceiling. The exterior of the building has, in the wedding photo that hangs over our mantle, been mistaken by visitors to our home for the grand Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. The elegantly themed restaurant was primarily intended as a draw for the many tourists who flock to Orlando, but weddings were also a portion of their business. Though just how profitable the wedding business was remains in question; the restaurant has, sadly, long since been replaced by one that proclaims itself a “shrine to motorsports,” redesigned beyond recognition with a checkered racing flag roof and monster trucks hanging from the ceiling. This is perhaps as it should be, with our special, undiscovered location better left to meaningful memories that become more precious with each passing year.

Inside the round building, tiered levels of seating surrounded the large center dance floor, where guests were entertained by strolling musicians. Kent and I shared our first dance on the elevated platform in the middle of that dance floor, flanked by four marble columns rising high in the air. The DJ played all the right music for a party that no one wanted to leave, and later in the evening, I tossed my bouquet from a balcony overlooking the scene. A fairy tale wedding, through and through.

I can’t believe that anyone would remember my wedding 13 years later, but people still talk about it as a memorable event, both for the cozy, sentimental ceremony built on family and pure love, and the one-of-a-kind party that followed. It was an eclectic combination, and yet it was exactly perfect. Except I think the perfection really lies in having picked the right partner. I’ve been living the fairy tale ever since.

Today is our anniversary. 13 wonderful years—the best of my life. I’ve loved every single day with Kent. Especially the rainy ones.

Yes, I was one of those privileged youth. Raised in a family that enjoyed a relatively high standard of living within the small town we lived in. I think, I hope, that I didn’t let it go to my head. The truth is, although we lived in a nice house, I didn’t have any more than my classmates in terms of flashy clothes or faddish trinkets or spendable cash. At school, the only obvious sign of my socioeconomic status was that car, and a prized possession it was, though I was careful not to show off too much. I didn’t want to be known as the spoiled rich kid. But the car spoke for itself and attracted new friends who were more than happy to hang with me as long as I would drive—in the way cool convertible, of course.

So the Mustang and I spent much quality time together with friends and, later, boyfriends, zooming all around town and beyond, top always down, with wind rippling through our hair. And all was blissful in Mo-land.

But as time wore on, I began to sense that some of my new “friends” cared more about being seen in the convertible than about being seen with me, while others resented my good fortune and really did see me as spoiled. Me, Most Shy, the girl who just wanted to get along. Still, a good-natured joke here, and a snide comment there, and before long it was clear that the cool car didn’t really make me any cooler. Or more popular. Though for the most part the teasing was harmless, and I took it as it was intended—in good fun.

Except it wasn’t always good fun.

I was sometimes teased by peers for not having to work. The implication was clear. I had the easy life, with everything—especially the fancy car—handed to me on a silver platter. The truth was, my parents placed much more emphasis on an education that would lead to a self-sustaining career than on a part-time job that would land me enough cash for the movies or the latest designer jeans. As far as they were concerned, unless I was making straight A’s, my time was better spent studying. Smart parents. Their push for long-term academic excellence in lieu of short-term “gotta have it” gain paid off.

Later, when I finally landed that longed-for first summer job as a waitress, eager to demonstrate a work ethic and establish an employment history, a catty co-worker, who also happened to be a classmate, informed me that my posh car was out of place in the employee parking lot. She then went on to say the thing that humiliated one sensitive and circumspect teen. She bluntly accused me of taking a job away from someone who “really” needed it. Typical, isn’t it, that the coveted dream car fed into an unjust stereotype and resulted in spiteful barbs?

Don’t get me wrong. I loved that car, which holds many fond memories, and I have long since forgiven the cutting remark, having attributed the scene to adolescent inexperience. But I still remember it clearly nearly 20 years later, word for word, because it taught an important life lesson that has stayed with me to this day. It taught me to appreciate the things I am fortunate enough to have, but not to bank my happiness or social acceptance on them. At the end of the day it’s just “stuff,” and only temporary stuff, at that.

Now, these many years later, my family and I find ourselves on the verge of buying a new home. It’s natural to want the best our budget will allow—the most space, the nicest accoutrements, a desirable neighborhood, a swimming pool for the kids. The suburban family version of “stuff.” Yet I find myself remembering the days of the Mustang, and reminding myself that our lifestyle is not about bragging rights or “keeping up.” It’s not about impressing our neighbors and friends or finding fulfillment in our accumulated possessions. It’s about wise choices tempered with modesty and respect, and remembering not to let the things we own define who we are.

And no, my kids will not be getting brand new convertibles when they turn 16. Pity them deeply, because their first cars will be big and ugly and safe. But they will still be the coolest kids in school, because their parents will have taught them it’s who they are on the inside that makes them stand out, not what they have or don’t have.

]]> http://accidentalthinker.com/2007/02/04/fun-fun-fun-til-daddy-takes-the-mustang-away/feed/ 11 http://accidentalthinker.com/2007/01/14/mommy-im-hungry/ http://accidentalthinker.com/2007/01/14/mommy-im-hungry/#comments Sun, 14 Jan 2007 20:53:04 +0000 Monique http://accidentalthinker.com/2007/01/14/mommy-im-hungry/ Lately, I’ve noticed my kids catching on to a new trick that my sister and I had once mastered ourselves. The art of convincing each other to approach Mommy with a question when the answer is sure to be “No.”

For now, this revolves around snack time, and I can spot the subterfuge a mile away. More than once recently, Noah has emerged alone from play with Maia, appearing before me in all his smiley adorableness to pronounce himself hungry or request a snack. I know my little schemers discussed it beforehand, because Noah always goes back and dutifully reports to Maia exactly what I said. “Mommy said not now, we just had lunch.”

Am I that fearsome that Maia is afraid to ask me herself? More likely, she believes the four-year-old stands a better chance of gaining access to the sought after yummy snack treats, since he is known to be irresistibly hard to deny. But once Noah begins to understand that his big sister has been goading him into doing her dirty work, I know he’ll start fighting back. I can hear it now:

“You ask her.”

“No, YOU ask her.”

“No way, it’s YOUR turn.”

Ah, the good old days of conspiring ever more clever ways to circumvent Mom’s expected “no.” What memories! I secretly enjoy watching my kids figure out the same tricks I used as a kid. Not that they work any better now than they did then, but it’s entertaining to see them try.

One of the best finds was a book that was a favorite for my dad to read to me as a kid, titled "Big Max." Big Max was a quirky but observant detective who traveled by umbrella, and he was on a mission to help the King of Pooka Pooka find his missing elephant. The thing I always loved best about this particular book, however, wasn’t the story. It was the way my dad inimitably rolled the phrase "Pooka Pooka" off his tongue in his thick Spanish accent. I was captivated, making him the only person who could ever read it to my liking.

Equally riveting, for me, were the preserved elementary school photos. 2nd, 3rd, and 4th grade class pictures have survived the years, and it was a thrilling blast from the past to see familiar faces both long forgotten and recently reacquainted. There is so much possibility reflected in each and every one of those eager young faces! And my husband observed that Maia poses for the camera in the same tilt-headed posture that I had adopted for the 2nd grade picture, in particular. As it so happens, she is about the same age now that I was in that picture, which pleased her to no end.

I love memories like this, and they are exactly the kind of memories that I want to preserve for my own kids. They are going to be the delighted recipients of boxes of their own some day.

I can relate. I remember my mom taking me to see Grease in the theater as a kid. I didn’t want to go, having never heard of the flick. Really, who wants to see a movie about grease? How wrong I was. To this day, Grease holds the distinction of being the movie I have watched more than any other. I watched it over and over and over and over. And then I watched it some more. I pretty well had the whole thing memorized. I had the soundtrack album (as in vinyl LP), and my friends and I would take turns singing the male and female parts. Grease holds many fond memories for me, and there is no way I can listen to the music even now without singing along.

I have a feeling I know what Maia is getting in her Easter basket this year. It might be the soundtrack to a certain modern update on an old classic, which has so captured her attention. 

Most of my travel memories are fond ones. But there was that one harrowing experience aboard a train in Switzerland. It was the summer after I graduated from college, when I spent three weeks backpacking, solo, through Europe. I no longer recall my point of origin or final destination, but I clearly remember being alone in a train compartment when an older gentleman entered. I still remember his white tufts of hair and his somewhat short stature. This harmless looking, beret wearing, grandfatherly old man came in with his newspaper, sat down, and began speaking to me in German. Since I only speak English and hardly enough Spanish to get by, it was difficult at first, but through gestures and a few words in common, we managed to make a little polite conversation. He wanted to know where I was heading, so I told him. Then, he moved closer to me and began rubbing my back. This was more than a little unusual and way outside my scope of personal travel experiences! I had no idea what his intentions were, but I didn’t plan to stick around to find out. The train had not yet left the station, so I got up to grab my backpack. He tried to stop me. I wrestled my backpack down from the overhead rack anyway, then he tried to block me from leaving. By this time I was truly frightened. I managed to slip past him and exit the train, reboarding another car. I wanted to find a compartment where I would not be alone, but they were either empty or completely full. So, heart racing, I chose an empty berth, closed the door, and drew the curtains, hoping he would not find me. I saw what appeared to be his shadow walk by a couple of times, then he was gone for good. Or so I thought.

When the train arrived at my destination, I gathered my belongings, only to discover his silhouette beyond the curtain covering the door. He was standing right outside my compartment! Waiting for me? I didn’t know what to do. Should I stay where I was and go on to the next stop, or get off as planned and hope people would respond when I screamed if he tried anything? I was paralyzed with indecision (a common state of mind for me), but finally chose to get off since there were plenty of people around. I didn’t make eye contact, though he followed me at first and tried to talk to me. Again, I couldn’t understand because of the language barrier, but I gathered he was just trying to make sure I knew it was my stop. Then he went on his way.

I always wondered if he really was a dirty old man or if I simply misunderstood. I do enjoy my personal space, but I know Europeans are less concerned about such things in general than Americans. They are a touching, hugging, cheek-kissing bunch. At least the Spaniards are. I know, because I’m directly related to some of them. So maybe he was just a nice guy trying to help a girl traveling alone in a country where she didn’t speak the language. If so, did I offend him with my hasty retreat? Maybe he only wanted to detain me long enough to restore his good name. Or maybe I’m naively too eager to always give the benefit of the doubt. But as that girl traveling alone, there’s no way I was going to leave myself in any situation that made me uncomfortable. I’d have been stupid if I had.

It was the season for college applications, and I had completed mine while the object of my affection had not. He was in need of a typewriter (yes, you read that correctly, a typewriter — did I just date myself?), and I happened to have one sitting idle since my mother had insisted my applications not be left until the last minute. He asked to borrow it. I told him it would be no problem, but that my mother wouldn’t let it leave the house, so he’d have to use it at my place. Of course she had never said any such thing. (Mom, I’m sorry I dragged your name into my little white lie, but it was for a good cause, honest!) It was my little way of forcing more time together outside of school. In my bedroom, even, since that’s where the typewriter just so happened to be plugged in. Of course I never considered moving it to some other, more properly supervised, room. I’m so devious!

I have no remorse, because my plan worked like a charm. He dutifully came to my house several times to use that typewriter for his college applications. Perhaps more than was strictly necessary, now that I think back on it. Our first date followed soon after, along with the requisite exchanging of class rings. The relationship only lasted a few months, but we’ve stayed in touch off and on over the years and I still consider him a friend.

Now having told this story, let me just say for the record that I did NOT have to resort to trickery of any kind to ensnare my husband. That was and is and always will be the real deal.