Stolen car prompts locking up, even in the small-town bubble

The sheriff’s deputy called me at 7:15 a.m. asking me if I knew where my car was.

I walked to the window to look out into my driveway, where I had left my car the night before. There was just an empty spot of gravel, with weeds growing up through the cracks.

“No,” I groaned. “I don’t know where my car is. But I bet you do.”

My car had been stolen right out of my driveway.

I live in a small town. City officials like to call it a city, but at 4,300 people and the nearest city of 50,000 almost an hour away, it’s really a small town. Tiny, even.

When I describe it to my city-dwelling friends, I tell them about how my children can go anywhere here and someone who knows who they are. About how people here take care of one another, welcoming new babies, helping each other care for the sick or injured, celebrating important moments together, making good things happen for the town. It is an extraordinary place.

And one of the things I always mention is the fact that, for nine years, I’ve left my keys in my car and my house unlocked.

Guess I won’t be doing that anymore.

I know for a lot of you it’s challenging to imagine a place where any reasonable person would ever think it’s okay to leave keys in the car. When I first moved here, I saw people go into our coop and leave their children in the car. Little children. I was outraged. I remember looking around thinking, what is this? How can these kids just be sitting out here alone? Don’t their parents know how many bad things can happen in the world? Where’s their imagination?

I’ve always had a great imagination. Not only that, but I covered crime for a newspaper in Minneapolis for years, so I don’t even have to rely on my imagination. There’s no question that people can be wicked.

But if you lived here every day, and you saw the same people at the coop, and you knew more than half of the people in the store every time you went, I’m guessing that after a few years, even the most citified of you would loosen your ties, lose your high heels, and yes, perhaps, even leave your keys in your car.

It’s really a pretty good life.

But suddenly, my car was gone. Worse, it sounded like it had been totaled.

I have never had a love affair with a car. I don’t particularly like cars even. The thought of traveling through space at speeds our bodies can’t even comprehend has always felt uncomfortable for me. But they’re certainly handy little contraptions, aren’t they? I sure get places fast and get a lot of stuff done with a car. And now, I don’t have one.

I went out to the scene, about five miles from my house, where the thief had slammed the car into a tree doing about 70-miles-per-hour. I wanted to see for myself.

Up until the time I saw the car, I was really very calm. As I said, I’m not particularly attached to my car. And I’ll get another one. It was a hassle, to be sure. But not really a crisis.

And then I saw the place where the thief’s head had broken the glass on the windshield, protruding out into a gentle mound of crushed glass. I saw the top of the ignition key on the floor of the car, where it had been snapped off, probably by his knee. The rest of the key stayed in the ignition and the car was endlessly beeping, reminding me to take the key out or to close the door. I saw the middle part, in between the seats, where there was a handy little drawer for stuff, ripped off, probably from the force of his body. The tree had smashed viciously into the driver’s side, crushing whoever was in that spot. There was blood on the airbag. And blood on the package of wet wipes that I keep under the seat. He must have tried to grab some to stop the blood, but he couldn’t get them out from under the crushed seat.

I looked at the trees, bark scraped off and tiny shards of bright red blinker glass embedded into the trunk. I scanned the woods around the area and realized that this could be a far bigger deal than I had understood. My neck muscles tightened at the violence of the scene. This person had, apparently, walked away. But he hadn’t shown up in the emergency room. Could he be out in a ditch somewhere?

I thought about him all day. I wondered if he had gone home alone, or had someone come and picked him up from the lonely country road? Was he badly injured? Was it possible that the air bags really protected him that much? Could he be that lucky?

Yes, he was protected. And yes, very lucky, as it turns out. Within two days, two teenage boys were arrested and confessed to stealing and trashing my car. They were caught because the mother of one of the boys saw his injuries, became suspicious, and called the cops. What a brave and terrible thing to have to do for your son. I’m glad she called.

I have always felt that it was so unlikely that someone would steal my car, and if he did, I wouldn’t be too bothered by it. Yes, I made it easy for him by leaving the keys in the car. That was my piece of negligence.

After what actually happened, I realize how lucky I am. I’m lucky those boys didn’t kill themselves. I’m lucky they didn’t kill anyone else. I’m not blaming myself for the kids’ night of stupidity. That’s all theirs. But I am sorry that one of the boys is old enough to have a felony on his record for the rest of his life. I am sorry they got hurt and may have lasting injuries.

I told the district attorney that I would be willing to have the boys come and do yard work for me as part of the restitution that they’ll have to pay. I’d like for them to hear about how my 5-year-old sobbed when I told her what happened and asked me, “How could anyone do something so horrible?” I’d like to tell them about waking up at 3 a.m. and wondering if someone was downstairs – despite all my best rationalizing and understanding of how entirely unlikely that might be.

I’d like to tell them how they change my little town for me. About how I’ll live here just a little bit differently. I’d like them to know.

A woman: pretty or not? Is there something more to us?

Anyone who has even a passing relationship with the media knows that the ways women are generally portrayed have little to do with the ways that most real women look or act.

Most women on television, in advertising, in movies, in magazines, and in video games are tall, tiny, and decidedly hot. Most women in real life are larger, not so tall, and beautiful in many ways…but not generally in the ways that supermodels are.

So we—men and women—have an expectation gap. Women who see these images are often left feeling inadequate and big. Men who see these images may have all kinds of reactions, including understanding the trickery that goes into this imagery. But some men might just want one of these tall, beautiful, hot women. Some women might just want to be one.

And why shouldn’t we? It isn’t a crime to be beautiful and sexy and free and full of life and vibrancy. We like this in people. We’re attracted to these qualities.

But what we often see in the media is a portrayal of a woman whose primary and sometimes sole attribute is that she’s got a great ass and a pretty face, and she knows how to work them.

 A little side note. Having been part of “the media,” I am always loath to use the words “the media.” It’s a bit like saying “black people” or “white people” and then proceeding to aver some universal truth about that particular group. We’re all mixed up and nuanced. It’s difficult to say one thing that is wholly and completely true of any group. So I know there are exceptions. But let me just say this: This media portrayal of girls and women is dismal, dire, and devastating.

And that portrayal is messing not only with the minds and lives of girls and women, but of boys and men, too. How are we supposed to build healthy lives and relationships when our most pressing question about a woman is how pretty she is and how sweet her ass is? What about everything else that women have going on? 

Women are CEOs and entrepreneurs and heads of state and high-ranking politicians and hugely influential entertainers and athletes and candidates for the highest political office in the country. Women are raising the next generation. More women than men are earning college degrees, and women are a growing segment of middle management.

But even with all these achievements, an enormous power gap remains. Women make up less than 5 percent of the power positions in Fortune 500 companies, and about 3 percent of those positions in the advertising, telecommunications, publishing, and entertainment industries, the very industries that are portraying women as delightful things for your pleasure.

I happen to have a pretty face and a sweet ass. Neither may be as sweet or pretty as they once were, but I have lived the life of an attractive woman. From the time I was a small child, people have commented favorably on my body and how I look. I have been given the seal of approval by hundreds, maybe thousands of men—and women, for that matter.

As a younger woman, I explicitly used this attribute to my advantage, sometimes without the best judgment. Once, I walked down a hall in high school toward two boys, hall monitors, who were sitting on either side of the hallway, expecting to collect a hall pass before letting a student walk through. I looked them in the eye and walked on by. One boy said, “Hey, where’s your pass?” I kept on walking. The other boy said, “Her ass is her pass.”

I could give you hundreds of examples of how I learned that the way I look is at least part of the reason why things work well for me. Of how “my ass is my pass.” As I grew up and figured out more about who I am, I learned to make things happen without relying on my looks. And, of course, as a woman in my forties, my ass isn’t going to get me down as many hallways as it once might have. But I followed the advice of my mother (my beautiful mother) when she told me that however much people are attracted to my looks, looks will inevitably fade. Best to find something else to focus on.

Still, it’s a complicated equation for women—and for men. It’s easy to say that this kind of approval or disapproval of girls’ and women’s bodies is outrageous; easy to think that we should be considering the whole of a woman. It’s easy, in theory, to get behind the idea that men and women ought to allow women to excel because they’re smart, they’re creative, and they bring great skill and wisdom to our lives—that we all should be evaluated on our skills and abilities.

It’s easy to say. But there’s more to it, isn’t there? Because when a beautiful woman—vivacious and fluid, smiling and open—is around, who isn’t attracted to her? Who doesn’t love that luscious combination? Can we still have this woman and recognize her talents, too? Can we find the ways to honor women who aren’t as sure of themselves, or who don’t have the looks that tradition or the media deem attractive? Or who are more businesslike or shy?

The other day, my teenage daughter (my beautiful teenage daughter) was going through a magazine with her friend, looking at the women and deciding who was hot. I know that girls have been doing this for generations. I asked the girls what else they thought about these women. They looked at me with blank faces. One of them said, “I love her dress.”

My daughter is hardly a media junkie. Her mother is hardly what anyone would describe as fashionable. But the message is clear to her even at thirteen years old: How she looks is important. Critical, even.

I did the best I could in the moment. Isn’t that all we can ever do? I didn’t lecture the girls about the shallowness of our society (or their indulgence in the same). I just looked at the hot woman with them for a minute and asked, “What, do you imagine, does she dream about doing?”

Words and thoughts left unsaid

I’ve written more letters in my life than I’ve actually sent. Many more. I’ve written letters to my family and friends and politicians and store clerks and other drivers and strangers on the street and parents at parks and children of those parents. I’ve used these letters to say something that I needed to say. It just so happens that not everyone needs to hear everything I need to say.

Not all of these letters were letters of complaint or unhappiness. Some of them were letters of admiration or amusement or gratitude. But there are plenty of angst-filled ones. Especially from my youth. My unsent letters to my father would constitute its own volume. He surely wouldn’t know what to do with them. So they sit around, tucked in one notebook or another. I’m not very good at throwing away my notebooks. At throwing away any of my writing. I have stories from newspapers and magazines piled up over twenty years. What am I saving them for? When my friends moved me into my house five years ago, one friend asked, “Why do you have so many boxes of paper?”

There was box after box of old clips that I had written. Profiles of killers, stories about adolescence and mourning and gang wars and embracing your feminine side and black, white, and Somali kids, and elder care.

Paper is heavy. Do I imagine that I’m going to read the clips again? Could I find any particular story if I looked for it? Do I think that my children will one day pore over these stories? Would they be interesting to read? Were they to begin with? All of this is unclear. Because the stories sit in boxes.

One day, I was looking for something in the attic and I came across a short story published in a newspaper about a woman who had been killed. She was found in her home and there were interviews with her neighbors. I had conducted those interviews and written the story, but I didn’t remember a thing about it. This woman died and I had spent some portion of my life, probably an afternoon, thinking about her. But seventeen years later, I couldn’t recall the day, or the woman. There were a lot of people killed during my time as a crime reporter. Minneapolis was dubbed “Murderapolis.” Some of the dead come frequently and vividly to mind. Mostly, I think about the people who survived, the people I got to know and sometimes had relationships with.

But this woman died and a newspaper clip is all I’ve got from her.  

A while ago, in a box full of important papers that got lost during one office move or another, I found a whole set of cards that I didn’t send. 

These weren’t letters I’d written not intending to send. These were thank-you cards. They are bright purple and orange and pink and have hand-drawn pictures from my oldest daughter, Irene, on the envelopes. They’re sealed. They are from a time when I was pregnant with my youngest daughter, Molly. My marriage was rapidly deteriorating and then my husband and I got pregnant. I had always planned my babies before and this was a shock to me. And incredibly humbling. Mortifying is more accurate. I wasn’t the kind of woman who had an unplanned pregnancy, I had previously sniffed.

Was I the kind of woman who would try to save a marriage by getting pregnant? Ugh. I had to go around telling people I was pregnant when everyone knew that my husband didn’t want to be married to me anymore. He did, however, want to have sex with me. And I with him. Some things don’t change just because you don’t want to be married.

In any case, all these women gathered around me. Big bunches of them. They made the most delicious food. They rubbed oil into my feet and hands and shoulders. We stood in a circle and we created a web of yarn, connecting all of our hands, and then we took the web and bound it together, sealing it with two tokens of love and clarity. They spoke wishes of harmony and ease for me and my baby. They loved me. They didn’t care if I was the kind of woman who got pregnant when my husband didn’t want to be married anymore.

I wonder if these women know how much that circle meant to me that day and many days since. Maybe not, since I didn’t send them their thank-you cards.

But here’s what I hope. I hope that I’ve been grateful enough in word and deed that they each would know the gift they’ve given. Maybe I’m wrong about that.  

And Molly. When these women see the delightful sparkle in this girl’s eyes, do they see their part?  That even if they don’t remember that circle, that afternoon, they helped a woman who was down on her knees crawl back up to standing? I am sorry that I didn’t send the cards. I wonder what they say. I wonder if I should open them and read them.

Maybe it’s time to send them.

Why I left my aging, ailing father alone

My stepmother died on Saturday morning. By Monday, my father was appalled that her cancer doctor hadn’t called him to express his condolences.

“He took care of her for eight years,” my dad said, shaking his head in disbelief.

I made an attempt to explain this to him. I don’t know why. “Well, he’s got his own wife, his own life. He can’t be there all the time with every patient.”

Besides, I thought to myself, you hate the guy. He’s probably aware of that.

I can think of a million reasons why the doctor didn’t call my dad, but I could see my dad’s point. I could understand his longing. I thought about this particular moment again and again over the week I spent with him. He has this yearning for everyone—for someone—to care for him, to love him, and to help him. And he does whatever he can to screw that up. 

photo by Tsvetomira Zaharieva

 My father isn’t easy to love. I spent more time with him last week than I have in years. I have created the boundaries that I need to stay sane while still loving the man. I can’t be around him for very long without starting to feel my stomach tighten. I’m too sensitive to his harsh criticism; I’m too weary of his easy and constant dismissals of my life. When I’m around my father, I have to work to remember who I am and what I’m about. I have to move slowly and breathe deeply so I don’t snap back at him, so I don’t fall into the bitter volley of critique and evaluation that passes for conversation with him.

I manage it. I can even still see his beautiful heart, all beat up, bruised, and bewildered by the uncaring, raucous world around him. I see the ways he longs to be in the world, the ways he wishes the world was for him. He wants a world of peace, of caring, of genuine tenderness.

And I see why it won’t be like that for him. The man carries so much pain, so much grief, so much trespass against his very soul that it’s a small miracle that he’s still upright. At seventy-five and in the advanced stages of diabetes, he’s not upright much anymore. He’s been wanting to die for some time. Until he deals with this grief, it will weigh on him and deflect the peace and love he seeks.

I bought him a jar of coffee, and he said, “Well, this will last me the rest of my life.”

Maybe. But this is hardly a new mantra for him, however poignant it might be in light of his wife’s death. This is a man who has been wanting to “go home” for as long as I’ve known him. Maybe he will die within the month. But some family members have joked that with his stubbornness, maybe he’ll outlive all of us.

When I kissed him good-bye, I knew it might be the last time I see him. I’ve known this for at least three years, the three years that he’s been dying. He’s ready. So am I.

On the four-hour drive home, I felt my body ease into the hills of Southwestern Wisconsin. I let the plush green hills soothe me. It felt as if they were releasing some calming potion. I felt the frenetic pace of the city drift away. And I realized, not for the first time, what a sanctuary my home is for me and my children. This is a place with people who matter to me, where my children and I have kind and loving relationships. A place where we have a real community. It is beautiful in so many ways. It’s a place of peace, of caring, of genuine tenderness.

And I wished that my father had had the chance to create this for himself. I wished that he had been raised by loving hands and kind, open hearts. I wished that he had known the comfort of safety, and the luxury of a parent who delighted in him. I wished that he had been able to see how to find and nurture those parts in himself despite his history of heartache. I wished that I could give him some bit of this. Now, when it seems so late in the game.

As it was, he wasn’t ready to accept any help with what he’s facing now: an enormous house, a one-hundred-pound Doberman, an upcoming surgery to cut off yet another part of his flesh that he’s lost to skin cancer. After three unsuccessful major back surgeries, he can scarcely walk. After falling into and out of several diabetic comas over the past three years, he forgets things regularly. Sometimes, when he has to make a decision, he gets flustered and angry. He can’t see flowers on a tree eight feet away. But he insists he can still drive. “I don’t have any trouble,” he says.

So I left him. I left him like that. I know better than to push. And maybe this is the best way. What do I know? So I let him go. I call him every evening. I’ll help if he wants help.

And until then, I’ll be here, dreaming a little dream of sanctuary for him.