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MY FAVORITE WAY TO SPEND A LAZY DAY
It’s a cold, dreary, rainy day this Saturday. I’m usually up at six every morning and start off by exercising for an hour. But this morning I sleep in until seven, and when I get up, I put on my exercise clothes, but I really don’t feel like exercising today. Instead, I pick up my cell phone and play my daily game of Wordle. It’s easy today and I get it on the third try, then share it with my granddaughter, who also got hers today on the third try. This is my daily contact with Samantha, and something I look forward to every day.
I come downstairs and make coffee, then make toast and fry an egg. After eating, I should go back upstairs and get dressed, but I decide this is the perfect day for me to be lazy. I climb the stairs, lie down on my bed and travel through Instagram for a good hour or so. Then I read for a while. I’m about three quarters of the way through “The Measure” and I have to finish it by Monday when I meet with my Book Club members at noon.
The only time I stop reading is to go downstairs and fix myself some lunch. I’m warm and comfortable in my exercise clothes, and there’s really no reason for me to change. After eating, I’m back upstairs for more reading, then come to the computer to write a story.
This is my idea of a perfect way to spend a lazy day. Reading has always been an important part of my life. Going to the library as a child, losing myself for hours amidst all those books, I traveled to faraway lands, met interesting people, lived exciting experiences, and devoured all those challenging adventures.
So today is a perfect day for me. I don’t have to be anywhere, I don’t have to see anybody, I’m not responsible to anyone, and I am perfectly content to spend this whole day being lazy and doing what I love to do best. I couldn’t live like this every day. I do like being around people, engaging with others, finding new adventures.
But for today, I am enjoying an absolutely perfectly happy
A NEW LIFE
I pressed my nose against the window of the DC-3 airplane and gasped with delight. There it was, straight ahead, covered with glistening snow. Several years before we’d seen a picture of Mt. Egmont on the cover of a National Geographic magazine and thought how wonderful it would be to visit. And now there it was, 8,260 feet high, almost perfectly symmetrical, majestic against the clear blue sky on a Spring morning in September, and far more beautiful than any picture.
“Look, boys,” I cried. “We’re almost there.”
“There” was New Plymouth on the west coast of the North Island of New Zealand. Then was September 1, 1966. We were starting a new adventure—Alan had exchanged teaching positions with the Math and Physics teacher at Inglewood High School. We were exchanging houses, cars, furniture, bed linens, dishes, schools and neighbors.
Closer and closer we flew straight toward the mountain. We were flying from Auckland at an altitude of 4,000 feet and could see the turbulent Tasman Sea to our right and the lush green farm country on our left. We dipped down, surprised to see the landing strip was the green grass of a paddock with cows scampering out of our way in all directions.
“Those can’t be very contented cows,” mused Alan as the plane bounced to a halt near tiny Bell Block Airport. The stewardess opened the door and the few passengers filed out, down the short ladder to the tarmac. Our family was the last to exit.
A reporter from the Taranaki Herald took our picture and interviewed Alan. He told us the picture would be in the paper the next day. An American coming to teach in one of their schools was big news. Our new life in a new country was about to begin.
As we walked toward the terminal, my thoughts went back to the previous year.
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Alan came home from school one day and asked, “What would you think about living in another country for a while?”
“Hmm,” I answered, “it depends. What did you have in mind?”
“I’ve been reading about exchange teacher programs the government offers under the Fulbright-Hays Plan. We could exchange homes and my job in another country for a year. It would be a nice change and a great experience for Mark and Eric.”
“It sounds interesting, but what choices do we have? I don’t want to go to some remote area without electricity or running water.”
“No, nothing like that. Remember that article in National Geographic a few years ago about New Zealand? We said we’d love to go there and that’s one of the options.”
“Yes, I do remember. It looked like such an interesting country. That sounds exciting. Let’s do it. What do we have to do to get started?”
We had to fill out forms and send them to the government, then wait to see if we were accepted. We had to name three countries to which we’d like to be sent. We chose New Zealand, Australia, and Fiji, in that order, all English-speaking countries. We weren’t adventurous enough to tackle a foreign language.
Not long after, we were notified that we had been chosen to participate in the first step of the program, a face-to-face interview in Berkeley. We were told that we needed to bring all members of our family.
Oh, great. Mark was 6 and Eric 4—both precocious, lively and garrulous. We could never predict what they might say next. So we started preparing and bribing them.
“This is a very important interview,” Alan told them. “You must sit quietly and listen. Don’t say anything unless you’re asked. Then just answer with a very short response, and don’t ever interrupt. If you’re really good and behave, we’ll take you to a nice restaurant afterward for a fish dinner.” Both Mark and Eric loved fish and we had learned that this was a good inducement to get them to behave. The lecture and bribe were pounded into them daily.
On the day of the interview, the boys had fresh haircuts and clean fingernails, and we were dressed in clothes we thought appropriate. We walked into the room and were welcomed by two men and one woman. They were pleasant and we relaxed.
The interview went well. Alan was comfortable and answered their questions in a cordial and confident manner. The few questions they asked me—about my willingness to live in another country, how I would adapt to different cultures, foods, living conditions, etc.—I answered with honest enthusiasm.
Then they turned to Mark and Eric. Alan and I held our breaths. But we needn’t have worried. Immediately, Eric clammed up and gave short yes and no answers. Had we been too strong when we were coaching them? Then they turned to Mark.
“What are you going to be when you grow up, Mark?”
“A taxidermist,” he replied. This was a complete surprise to us. When had he thought of this, I wondered.
“That’s nice,” one of the interviewers said. “What is a taxidermist?”
“An animal stuffer.”
“What do they stuff the animals with, Mark?”
Mark answered, matter of factly, “Stuff,” as if to say, “Who doesn’t know that.”
Then the interviewer asked him if he would like to live in China. “No,” was Mark’s quick response, and when he was asked “Why not?” Mark said, “I don’t speak Chinese.”
We were accepted in spite of our children, or maybe because of them. They told us we were going to our first choice, New Zealand. We were ecstatic as we left the building and headed to the restaurant for the promised fish dinner. Now here we were, ready to start our new life.