Dear Antigone,
October is magical on the golf course.
This is overseeding season in the desert- when there’s little enough drought- (how to measure the absence of a lack) the gardeners are instructe landscapers tear out old grass and plant new seeds. The new growth is hastened by brief, frequent sessions of heavy watering, deployed at very specific intervals and regimented variety of locations and differing spray patterns. Now nine giant mechanical jellyfish hurl rainbows around the thirteenth fairway, where I sit, in my peacock chair with rum and coffee as I write this.
This Disneyland Ireland.
What else do I know about but fate and rolling little pills up against it? Lately, menopause. My bones are great for a woman thrice my age. I miss wearing high heels but I can’t afford to fall from those extra three inches and break my thigh in the vain service of trying to make it look longer and leaner. My teeth ache. They’re shifting. I’ve got five crowns already.
I’m bored and tired and overeating and can’t exercise. Lately I feel quite humorless in the face of the future. Once I hurtled myself towards the step-on horizon. I’m just not excited to go on running into walls.
I just wish knowing changed anything.
What are you reading? How are you?
Regards to your uncle,
Love,
Cassandra
Dear Cassandra,
Thanks for your letter.
My first formal failure was babysitting.
I read this whole series of little books about a group of junior high girls in Scarsdale, NY, who became babysitters. The books broke the burgeoning tween identity into neat characters. One was a tomboy. One was a delicate diabetic. One was smart. All were loved and admired by their little charges, because as a function of their club they always came uniquely prepared to entertain and mind the kid in question. The purpose of the club meetings was, in part, to discuss these measures. They’d share sticker packs and compare notes about bedtimes and favorite foods. They succeeded because they were prepared and because they had each other.
I prepared thoroughly, but needlessly. The kids I got were too young and too unruly to appreciate my urge to train them with treats. I was also too young to be dispensing them smartly. I wanted to lead by constant example. I ended up leading, if I did, by default cool, or the way you can’t care when it’s not your fault anyway.
My dad was always glad I was making money and out of the castle.
I didn’t have anyone to kibbitz with then. And I don’t have any leaders now. So my well packed bags of useful words lie, untouched.
Write Soon,
Antigone