I was in need of a piece of paper to scribble a thought I had about the recent death of Michael Jackson.
It was just a thought that the muse had whispered in my ear and the chance of it flitting away like an air bubble within the next five minutes was highly likely.
I was getting ready to drop the children – yes you read right- children- as in plural – as in more than one – at their summer camp. For the next three weeks my DH, DS and I are part of the goodwill ambassador foundation. We are sharing our house and home and our simple life with a fourteen year-old French boy. Oui- c’est vrais.
I was taking our young Frenchman and DS to their Ocean Camp at the other end of town. Two mop heads poked up from the back seat of the car as I made sure that I had indeed opened the garage door.
Garage doors and I have a somewhat static relationship. I once upon a time backed up a brand new car into the garage door that was coming down and it scalped the back side of the new car’s bumper.
Another time, the same car now that I think about, I decapitated a side mirror. My poor DH….but stories for another day.
This morning I was in mom mode and needed to get my charges to their camp on time. Garage door opened, key in ignition, I was listening to the familiar deep throated growl from my car when the thought hit me. My icon of youth, Michael Jackson, had passed away. He was just a few years older than me. Immortality or lack thereof was sending goose bumps down the back of my neck.
I began backing the car up looking over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t accidently hit a concrete boulder or an unsuspecting neighbor walking the dog. Michael Jackson was still with us. He had just taken on a different form I told myself. His music lives on in the myriad of his LPS, CDs and DVDs I had collected over the years.
I wanted to write this thought down in case it slipped out the back door before I had a chance to at least introduce it to the grey matter of my rather spotty mind.
I stuck my hand into the dark belly of my purse that for some reason seemed endless this morning. I felt around with my fingers and felt the shape of a phone, a wallet and a soft and squishy item that I was not sure about.
Aha! My fingers brushed against a slippery piece of something that crinkled when I tried to grab it. Paper! I pulled the sorry looking scrap out of the purse and stopped the car. On the paper was the following:
small packages of Pringles chips
Gatorade large six pack orange/red/yellow
one carton of organic low fat milk
Paul Newman’s lemonade
Riveting I thought to myself. How could I ever find room on this eensy weensy bit of paper to scribble my latest thought?
“Mom, can I have a tissue please?” I heard from the back seat of the car.
“Sure, honey,” I said, reaching into the console and pulling out a wad of the soft white stuff. Handing him the tissue I had an epiphany.
I can write my thoughts on a tissue - albeit unused.
“Thanks Mom,” said my son blowing into his cotton cloud.
“No, it is I who must thank you,” said I. “You helped me to be resourceful in a dire time of need,” I said as I furiously scribbled my thoughts on the soft tissue in my hand before they muse left me.
Desperate times desperate measures.