The Country Club Criminal

During my early morning web browsing I came upon this notice: All of Lassen Volcanic National Park is closed to all access due to the Dixie Fire. The huge blaze has moved into the southeast section of the park, destroying everything in its path.

Josh bade farewell to Small today and left to visit family in Virginia. Shortly before his departure, I headed off to see my preschool friend Lisa, her partner, and her lively 98-year-old courtesy aunt. They wanted to have lunch at a country club nearby. (This is an affluent area and country clubs abound, like churches in the Bible Belt). This one, to which said aunt belongs, is exceptionally snooty.

Learning of their dining plan spurred a long-buried memory. I was 18. I’d heard that particular club had a tradition of putting on great 4th of July fireworks shows for members, out on the expansive hillside behind the clubhouse. So my worldly (21 years old!) hippie boyfriend and I snuck onto the premises at dusk, my blonde-haired, blue-eyed self blending in seamlessly with the ocean of other WASPs, who were legitimately attending.

On a patio at the top of the hill were several long damask-covered tables set end-to-end. Deferential waitstaff in starched white jackets served every kind of alcoholic beverage you could dream of. This is what I sought. After consulting with my fella, we decided I should be the one to order our night’s beverages. So I took a deep breath and strode up to the bar, cash in hand. I was shaking, knowing that not only was I not allowed there but I was underage. Yet my drive for booze was stronger than my fear. I bravely ordered a couple beers and started to hand over the money. The bartender held up a hand.

“Oh, we don’t take cash here.”

“Uh, is it free?”

“No, you just put it on your account. What’s your name?”

I started to panic. What to do? Confess? Run away before I got caught? But, no. I was on a mission. I quick-fast thought of a prominent surname in the town and made up a first name to go with it, and before I could stop myself, I said it aloud. Just like that he jotted a note on his pad and handed over the drinks.

Over the next couple hours, until the last spark of the “pyro spectacular” (as the Oakland A’s would call it) had long since fizzled out, I returned for more refills than I can remember. And then we wobbled off into the night without a trace.

The next morning I awoke wracked with guilt. To anyone who knows me it is plain that I am almost obsessively honest. (My mother always says I’ve never been able to get away with telling a lie; my eyes give me away.) I knew I’d screwed up big-time and didn’t know how I could live with that gnawing worry. At last I came up with a solution. I penned an anonymous letter to the club, with some sort of vague admission of my sins and an apology, and tucked in a $20 bill to cover my expenses. In 1972 dollars that might almost have been adequate.

So I returned to the scene of the crime today. Luckily, there were no Wanted: Dead or Alive posters bearing my youthful face, and I enjoyed my legal lunch on that very same patio in peace.

The rest of the afternoon was filled with:

• Two- and three-way games of Canfield
• A phone conversation with my sister, Kate
• A Zoom call with Eleni and her wee ones
• Continuing tech issues on my computer, which Molly had to solve, as usual

We ate a late dinner and it was nearly dark by the time we finished. Molly’s and my hoped-for evening walk was looking less likely. But Ma insisted we leave the dishes undone, and go. Well, I know my mother. I was certain (based on precedent) that the moment we left she would clean up everything. To prevent this, I gave her strict orders to stay out of the kitchen in our absence. Alas, she is a stubborn beast; I had to restate the command several times before she finally promised to comply. And as a reminder, I strung a piece of twine across the kitchen entryway.

Off we went. Lo and behold, it wasn’t long before Lulu sighted a miracle: the brief glow of a single lightning bug! We proceeded to hunt for more and though there weren’t many, we did have some success:

Before returning to my mother, Molly snapped a selfie of us.

On the way back, I started to worry that my clever strategy to prevent Small from approaching the post-dinner detritus might have backfired: perhaps she had forgotten our prohibition, tried to enter the kitchen, and tripped over my barrier. Opening the apartment door, I called out to let her know we were back. I heard a reply and followed the sound. This is how I found her:

You see, she hates to be told what to do, so she had crawled under the string and made herself at home on the kitchen floor to await our return, just out of defiance. As you can see by the expression on her face, she was quite pleased with herself. I was only mildly alarmed at finding her thus and it was indeed an excellent joke, but one she may have regretted when it came time to get up again. With her almost-93-year-old bones, it was a bit of a challenge. Here, she spontaneously recites Longfellow—She moves, she stirs, she seems to feel the thrill of life along her keel—as Molly assists her back into a vertical stance.