A short summer with deserted castles

We were at Goodwill and my kids were supposed to be looking at clothes. Instead, Oliver insisted on getting two fish tanks because how can you pass up a $4.99 fish tank? I told him he should consider starting a blog called The Fish Hoarder, but he didn’t think that was a good idea. He said if he did that, the government might take his fish away, and then he’d be forced to join a militia.

If Oliver ever founded a country, commune, or homeowner’s association, its constitution would include the right to own many varieties of reptiles and aquatic animals. There would be no limitations on this freedom no matter how many people were eaten. Nothing I say to him about how you can take better care of your animals if you have fewer of them seems to faze him.

But this isn’t a story about too many animals, nor is it intended to make any kind of political statement about moderation.

I just want to tell you about some things that have happened to me since the beginning of the summer, which is almost over. Teachers in my school district go back later this week. Students come back next week.

Going back in early August seems strange to those of us who grew up starting school in September. When we were young, the symbols that represented this annual rite of passage were apples, wooden one-room schoolhouses, and pencils. The air was cool in the mornings. You could wear a pleated plaid skirt and tights to school, not because you went to a private school and you had to, but because you wanted to. Soon enough, the leaves would be changing color. Your cells were turning over and you were getting taller, stronger, wiser.

When I was looking for a teaching job, I always said I’d still want to be a teacher even if we went to year-round schooling, and I still feel that way.  So I’m not whining about too much work. That is not the point.

It’s like Jordan Baker said in The Great Gatsby, “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.”

There was just a certain feeling of anticipation and renewal when school started closer to fall. I used to think the new year should begin September 1 instead of January 1. It  isn’t the same when school starts in August, but then, I wonder if anyone experiences anticipation the same way at 39 that they did at 8 or 11, the ages of my children. I kind of doubt it.

I started the summer by taking a road trip with my mom, the first we’d ever done alone together in my adult life. Actually, it was probably the only trip Mom and I had taken with just the two of us since my sister was born when I was 18 months old.

We went to Swannanoa, an Italianate mansion on Afton Mountain near Charlottesville, Virginia, because I had a foggy memory of that place from early childhood. I remembered flashes of stone towers, stained glass, marble staircases, and flowering arbors. I remembered a time when my mother was looking for me and worried I was lost because I had gotten out of her sight at some enchanted place. When I described the memory, she said we’d been at Swannanoa.

So 37 years later, we went back to see it again.

My memory of Swannanoa was so hazy, maybe it was fitting that on the day we chose to visit, the fog was thick enough to obscure a view of anything more than 20 feet away. The moisture hung so heavy our clothing felt almost damp and our hair looked bad.

Built by a millionaire railroad tycoon in 1912, Swannanoa was home to a couple named Lao and Walter Russell when my mother took me there as a child. They founded the University of Science and Philosophy. I won’t attempt to explain that organization’s mission, but my mother said it was “new age before everyone knew what that meant.”

This once-opulent estate is now unoccupied and starting to decay. Its fountains are dry and the gardens are full of weeds. Very Miss Havisham.

It is, however, open for tours on certain weekends.

A Virginia Is For Lovers website listed a short summary of Swannanoa’s history with the hours it is open, ticket prices, and the fact that it is “LGBT friendly.” This struck me as a declaration similar to a label on a bottle of olive oil proclaiming the product to be “gluten free.” One would have assumed.

People who like Virginia history would probably find the trip to Swannanoa worthwhile, and so might photographers looking for a Gothic backdrop.

My mother, on the other hand, was not impressed by what the current owners had done with the place. In fact, we couldn’t even make it through a 20-minute guided tour. I was very worried that mom was going to launch a full-fledged, invective-laced tirade against the retired librarian who recounted the estate’s history to a roomful of people. (I think the woman was also related to the current owner, but I couldn’t stick around long enough to verify and was grateful I wasn’t writing a travel story.)

Mom and I broke away from the guided tour and went for a walk around the estate, finally coming to the stone tower I remembered from childhood. She said she had called it Rapunzel’s tower when I was little, which I must have loved. Looming in the fog, it looked nothing short of haunted.


A stone observation tower at Swannanoa Palace in Afton, Virginia.

I wished my sister were there with us because she loves photographing abandoned buildings and ruins, but she had to work that weekend. As we started to leave, we passed a woman in a punk princess dress having her photograph taken. Mom stopped to tell her that Swannanoa used to be a very nice place, but it wasn’t anymore. It was just terrible what had happened there, Mom said. The woman and the photographer smiled and nodded politely.

I suppose that if you go frolicking at an abandoned castle in the blinding fog and the scariest thing you encounter is a 5-foot-4-inch woman with long gray hair who wants to share her opinions, you can count yourself lucky.

After we left, Mom and I ate dinner at an Asian restaurant and then checked into our motel, where I got to experience Staying In a Motel Room With Your 65-year-old Mother When You Are 39.

Me: Go ahead, Mom, have another cigarette. I’m fine.

Mom: How does this remote work? Where is CNN? Can you hear that television? I’ve got to turn this up. I can’t hear it.

When she couldn’t get any satisfaction from the news, Mom decided to watch “The Godfather.” I was about to fall asleep around 10 p.m. when she woke me up.

“You’ve got to watch this scene,” Mom said, rousing me. “It’s one of the most famous ones.”

So I watched the guy wake up to the severed horse’s head, thanked my mother for always showing me the most important things in life, and then I fell asleep. Until 1 a.m.

One thing Mom and I have in common is that we both suffer from frequent insomnia. Having read extensively about insomnia, I know that, when you cannot sleep, you are supposed to get up, go into another room, and read something boring.

I was sitting on the bathroom floor of our motel room reading Teaching Young Adult Literature Through Differentiated Instruction when Mom opened the door.

Mom: What are you doing?

Me: I can’t sleep. Did I wake you up?

Mom: You really are a terrible sleeper. Maybe you should have one of those sleep studies. Well, if you’re going to be awake, come out here and watch CNN with me.

She went back to the bed, turned on the TV, and lit a cigarette, but she was very disappointed when all she could find was Anthony Bourdain instead of some news anchor or panel of experts talking about the latest Trump tweet.

I can’t really understand why someone who is trying to get back to sleep would light a cigarette and turn on the news, but then, how many healthy people sit on bathroom floors in the middle of the night reading professional development manuals?

Mom handed me a Tylenol PM, which I took, and I went back to sleep, after convincing her to turn off the television.

Mom described our visit to Swannanoa as a trip down Memory Lane for her. On the way there, she saw how much Harrisonburg, Virginia, where she went to college, had changed in 40 years. On the scenic secondary road we took to come home, she recalled where she had turned to go to the house where she lived with her first husband. At least the road was still there.

So, while I would definitely recommend a midlife road trip with your mom, I would also recommend that whenever possible, you should get your own hotel room. Make that your gift to yourself. This advice applies to traveling with your husband, and/or children as well.

Now, regardless of what I’ll be telling high school students in a week or so about logical transitions in writing, I’ve got to fast forward two months to our last weekend of summer break, the day we got the fish tanks at Goodwill. I was in Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, eating on a picnic blanket with my kids when Annabelle, 8, stood up and announced that she was going, “to wade at my own risk.”

She took the bucket and net she uses to catch minnows and headed toward the wading pools fed by natural springs in the town’s central park.

A large sign stated that children were to be supervised. No one was responsible for anything that went wrong there. No one was in charge. Everyone who waded did so at her own peril.

But it was the most beautiful day, the kind of day when it seems like nothing could go wrong. The weather was like … it was kind of … like it was on September 11.

I’m sorry. This is what happens when you are 39. Memory Lane isn’t all enchanted towers and flowering arbors.

But when she scampered off with her bucket and net I wasn’t actually thinking of September 11. I was thinking it was cute how she quoted the sign and I thought about posting something on Facebook. Because it’s the end of summer, all of my friends are posting “last splash” photos of themselves or their kids in bathing suits. I looked down at my phone for a minute and when I looked up, Annabelle was making small talk with a stout man a bit older than me – I’d say 50ish – who was wearing a bandanna. I watched him talk to her for a few minutes as other kids splashed around in the wading pools and tourists talked about which of the local cafes had decent food. Then the man in the bandanna walked away.

He was probably talking to her about her minnows. He probably has a daughter or niece or granddaughter her age.

My friends and I keep trying to figure out what exactly we’re supposed to say to our kids as they start puberty. We know we are supposed to have a talk with them, but we’re not sure what we should say during this talk because, actually, nothing our parents said to us worked.

“Some of the stuff I did when I was a teenager, I can’t even believe I survived,” my friend said the other day when we had this conversation.

“I know, right?” was my thoughtful response.

My husband Dan doesn’t remember his parents ever saying much of anything to him about sex or drugs other than, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Somehow, for him, this worked. He has always been pretty responsible, but knowing what I do about the world from both experience and the news, I would say he is more the exception than the norm.

Dan remembers his dad saying, “Regret the things you’ve done and not the things you haven’t done.”

This wasn’t meant to encourage illegal or particularly risky behavior. It was more of a mantra for life in general. And it is interesting advice. I wonder if he said the same thing to his daughter.

Somehow Annabelle knew there was a grand castle on the hill above the park in Berkeley Springs, built many moons ago by some wealthy nobleman. She wanted to climb the hill and see it, but when I called my husband to ask his advice, he said not to go onto the property because it probably wasn’t open to the public.

We climbed up the hill, but our view of the castle was obscured by the trees. Annabelle was disappointed. Meanwhile, Oliver was worried about us being hit by a car.

My internet research indicated the castle was built by a colonel who, at 46, fell in love with a 17-year-old.

The first time he made a pass, she turned him down, but five years later, he convinced her to marry him by promising to build her a castle. Ain’t love grand?

I asked a girl working inside the hotel at the park if the castle is ever open for tours now. She said it is not, currently, because the owner died and there’s been some family drama since then, or something like that.

I told Annabelle that maybe they’ll reopen it soon and we’ll be able to take a tour.

My summer started and ended with deserted castles, which are intriguing, but sad. Even the most solid of fortresses built by the richest of men can turn to ruin in less than a generation. I suppose it should make me feel better about my own dysfunctional family and all that we haven’t been able to preserve.

When she was going to sleep the other night, Annabelle said she was a little bummed about starting school because it will be a year before there’s another summer. But she mentioned that at least she did get some really awesome new notebooks.

So if you’re wondering what to buy a kid to ease the bittersweet and seemingly premature farewell to summer, a cool notebook, sturdy binder, and a few pens and pencils could go a long way. You can probably skip the fish tank, in your case.



He looked like a Travis. The young man who served us at Applebee’s did everything a waiter could to make his customers feel welcome. He made eye contact and small talk, offered suggestions about which menu items were his favorites. Overall, he was a much better waiter than I ever was, which I admit isn’t saying much. Only he had this weird habit of calling every female customer “sweetheart.” I know it wasn’t just me and my daughter because we also heard him address the two elderly women in the booth across from us with the same greeting. Male diners were “My Man.”

If I were 19, I probably would have thought he was cute.

“Your food is almost ready, My Man!”

“Can I get you another water, sweetheart?”

As he walked away from our table, my husband muttered under his breath that it would be OK if the kid dropped the Bosom Buddy routine.

“I knew you would be mad about him saying that,” Annabelle, 8, said to her father.

“Well, it’s one thing to call an 8-year-old girl sweetheart, but not somebody’s wife,” was his response.

We had only ended up at Applebee’s on a Tuesday night because I’d been in a class all day and Dan was home with the kids. Even though he took them bowling in the middle of the day, by the time I got home, they were all so bored that each had started self-medicating with ridiculously dull You Tube videos. It sounds asinine, but look, it was hot out.

As soon as I walked through the doors and put my bags down, Dan began telling me how he’d found a typo in a magazine. Then he wanted to show it to me. They had misspelled obsolete as “absolete.” Could I believe it?

He got a bit angry that I wasn’t interested.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you,” he said, as I glanced over the headlines in the newspaper that I hadn’t had a chance to read that morning.

Then he wanted to tell me about how he’d watched a video in which a man was cutting down a tree from the wrong side.

I knew that if I did not get my family out of the house soon, violence would almost certainly erupt before bedtime.

So we went to Applebee’s, which was pretty much packed. Everything in our town is always that way nowadays, even on a Tuesday night.

Every single member of the wait staff looked eligible to be one of my or Dan’s former students, but thankfully, none were. (We love when we go out to eat and do not see anyone we know. That is our absolute favorite.)

Even though the youngsters running the restaurant were handling the demands on them with dignity and grace, Dan and I made a plan to start patronizing all of the most desolate establishments in our region, just so we can avoid crowds. We are going to start eating at restaurants where octogenarians in bowties work one day a month as accordionists. These are going to be “our” places.

Dan, the kids, and I sat discussing the atmosphere at Applebee’s after Travis had delivered our food.

“Well,” I said, “I probably would have started crying already if I was working here tonight.”

Dan and I both discovered during our college years that we weren’t good at waiting tables. He spent one night on the floor of a restaurant in the town where he went to college and immediately asked to be transferred back to the kitchen, where he worked as a cook and dishwasher for many happy years thereafter.

It was pretty much the same for me. My friend had gotten me a job as a bartender and sometimes waitress at a haunted historic inn when I was 21. I almost had to wait on Newt Gingrich one night, but he must have had a change of plans, for which I was grateful. I did eventually learn to pour a mean Manhattan, but the owner of the inn still encouraged our boss to fire me from time to time because of my terrible personality. She wouldn’t do it, however, because even though I was a sullen thing, I was dependable, and the old men who were regulars at the bar liked talking to me. They liked how I was a serious brunette and my friend was a bubbly blond. We were foil characters for them.

One of the waitresses at the inn, a tall blond who was an honest-to-goodness adult, probably in her 30s, told us that you can’t move around in a hurry when you wait tables. It makes the customers feel rushed. I understood the crystalline truth in this as she said it, yet I could never bring myself to really be the embodiment of slow southern hospitality. I remember once this couple asked to take my picture at the bar just because I was a real, live southern woman. Strange as it seemed, it was kind of flattering, considering I’ve also met people from out of town who sighed with disappointment when I didn’t produce much of an accent.

So I didn’t mind the college-aged waiter calling me sweetheart, even though it was a bit awkward. I have been called worse.

After dinner, we piled our leftovers into a little styrofoam box and headed out. As we left, I noticed a Now Hiring sign, for hosts, kitchen staff, and waiters.

If we are lucky

We spoil our kids

because we are sorry.

We brought them here

to keep us company

and love us.

And now they have to feel,

All the pain we felt and maybe more.

The tide will take your sandcastle,

The sun will set.

And I can’t guarantee anything,

Not even that I will be here tomorrow

Or that you will be.

Where will we go?

That depends.

If we are lucky,

We will not experience too much pain,

But you will hurt

Even when it’s not your fault.

And sometimes it will be your fault

And that hurts, too.

And if I gave you my advice now

Or tried to inspire you

Or made promises

And said there are no monsters

It would seem insincere.

And I am running out of time

And running out of paper

So I will leave you

my love.

If I never say it again,

I love you.

Naked and blind

I had a dream last night that I was teaching a class. It was some kind of summer school class because we were in a covered shelter with picnic tables. The students were in their late teens, possibly early-college age, and I had a male teaching assistant whose age I could not guess, but he was younger than me. And for some reason my mom was there, just sitting in a corner observing.

So I said, “Get out your books,” like I always do, and they were taking their time, like they always do. As I was going through the whole, “let’s talk about what we read yesterday” thing, I got something in my eye and couldn’t see.

Also, suddenly, I was topless.

“OK, who wants to read first today?” I asked.

No one volunteered. Frustrated, I shouted out, “OK, fine, I’ll stand up here naked and blind and I will read!”

Despite my threats, I ended up dismissing the class, having accomplished very little in terms of literary analysis. Then I did what naked, blind women in positions of power do all the time. I stormed up to my teaching assistant and started yelling at him. He grabbed me by the shoulders and said, “You need to chill out.”

I mean, that’s the edited version of what he said.

I woke up to Lionel Richie’s “Dancing on the Ceiling” playing on my clock radio.

I just think it’s interesting that an 80s pop song about cutting loose woke me up from a dream about someone telling me to stop being so uptight.

I don’t remember my dreams from the 80s, but I think it must have been easier to cut loose back then. Maybe that’s only because I was a kid. Plus, back then, there were no log-in servers to worry about. Your computer didn’t get hacked by some guy in India who lies and says his name is Raymond and he’s a “certified technician.”

“May I know what is the operating system you are using?”

Oh no, Raymond, you may not know. You may never know.

In the 80s, you went into your room and listened to cassette tapes. Alone. No one invaded your cyberspace. You didn’t know what everyone you ever met was doing at all times. You didn’t know when your middle school principal was vacationing in Venice. Lionel Richie was talking about dancing on the ceiling and Whitney Houston asked how she would know if he really loved her. (She said a prayer with every heartbeat.)

In creative writing last semester, I told the students to keep a journal of their dreams. People had a hard time with that assignment. Some said they didn’t remember dreams.

Well, it is hard, but it’s probably worth it if for no other purpose than self-analysis. Haven’t you ever wanted to tell someone about your dream and realized as you were describing it in vivid detail that they didn’t care?

But you should care, because dreams are all about the subconscious, and if you don’t see that somewhere between your subconscious and the waking universe there is a message you need to hear, then you’re not paying attention.

That is all.

Dollars to doughnuts

Recently my 11-year-old son Oliver asked me out of the blue if I thought working at a doughnut factory would be a good job.

At first I said no. But when I thought about it, there would be several advantages to working in a doughnut factory. For one, you’d go home smelling like doughnuts. Eventually, you’d get sick of doughnuts and stop eating them for awhile. Both good things, don’t you think?

Ever since he started talking about 10 years ago, Oliver’s observations have given me perspective on things I’ve either never thought about or hadn’t considered in a long time, including the benefits of making doughnuts for a living.

Oliver and I went to the Dollar Store to pick out out some gift cards.

“If I was a grown-up,” he said, “I’d buy some of my groceries here because they have the same things with lower prices. Look at all these sodas!”

He stood marveling at shelf displaying a rainbow of soda drinks and then picked up a 2-liter bottle of sparkling strawberry lemonade.

“Look at this!” he said, amazed.

And isn’t it pretty amazing that 2 liters of lemonade can be purchased for $1, when a simple 16-ounce bottle of water is $4 or $5 at one of those museums in Washington? One soda will cost you $4.99 at one of our local movie theaters.

As we made our way through the aisles, he kept pointing out all the products sold for much more at other places. I didn’t bother telling him that they’re not always the same products or the same quantity and that sometimes Dollar Store bread tastes like fabric softener smells. Instead, I decided the Dollar Store might really be better place to buy nuts than Martin’s.

Later that day, I took both of my kids to McDonald’s. I was focused on parking when they informed me that the car beside us almost certainly doubled as someone’s home because it was filled with garbage, clothes, and empty food containers.

“It’s dirtier than Bob’s car!” one of them said.

(Bob is a pseudonym for one of our actual friends.)

“If I lived in my car, I wouldn’t keep so much trash in it,” Oliver stated.

I told him the guy who owned the car probably hadn’t cleaned it out in a couple of days.

“A couple of days? Did you see all those soda cans?” he asked me.

“Well,” he said, “the back does look sort of cozy. There are some pillows back there.”

I am concerned that as my children get older, I’ll have to write about them less and less to protect their privacy. What will I write about once their quotes stop being funny?

When I told him I planned on writing about things we talked about that day, Oliver was concerned that our conversations would offend people who work at doughnut factories, causing them to attack us.

I told him I didn’t think that was very likely.

The cell phone dilemma

Today’s horoscope said being concerned with “the result” would be good in a professional setting, but not a social one. I took that to mean that goals I could achieve alone might be attainable, but having expectations of others was a bad idea. Today.

It kind of reminds me of the serenity prayer. The trick is knowing what you can control and what you can’t.

Like yesterday, when my daughter, who will be in the third grade, wanted to download the Instagram app on her tablet. She asked me if she could and I said something to the effect of “whatever,” thinking she wouldn’t be able to start an Instagram account without my help.

But I was wrong. Not only did she download the app, but she managed to start an account using a profile picture of herselfie holding up the two-finger “peace” sign.

She showed it to me. She had started “following” some people who posted cat videos, because she likes cats, and she had also recorded a video of her own cat, which she intended to post.

I mentioned the peace sign profile pic to my husband. He proceeded to go ballistic until the child was crying. And in the process of crying, she totally threw me under the bus.

“But you said I could!”

So, this is one of those things I could and should have controlled.

Well, it was true. I said she could. But I figured, you know, we could always delete the app. Which we did. After he went ballistic.

He and I are both high school teachers. I have a love-hate relationship with social media, but I admit that I really don’t think it’s any place for a third-grade girl.

He has a hate-hate relationship with social media. He carries a pay-per-minute Tracfone, which he does not answer.

This is what he told her: People on social media are mean. And it’s true. Social media is where at least half of the bullying in the world takes place now, and that’s just bullying. That’s not even considering the risk from online predators.

One of the most frustrating things for high school teachers is reminding students to put their phones away and focus. I assume second-grade teachers don’t have this problem, but I recently talked to a fourth-grade teacher who does, sometimes. She told me that many of her students do have cell phones.

In talking to friends, I have gathered that the average child uses a tablet before starting elementary school and is given a cell phone around age 11, when they enter middle school. This is so that the child can text the parent throughout the day regarding extracurricular activities. Obviously, it creates a major distraction in school, but it seems that many parents believe their children are mature enough at 11 to use cell phones responsibly.

But if we’re being honest, we’ll admit that a lot of adults aren’t very responsible or polite with their cell phones, either. What is with these people who are always on their phones in public places, even when they go through the checkout at the grocery store? They can’t get off the phone long enough to say “thank you” to the cashier.

I’ve had to ask friends to please stop texting me while we are both driving. They laugh at me for being such a technophobe. They’re like, “Ha-ha, that’s my friend, Star, the one who likes reading paper books …”

So this morning, my daughter watched a movie about a teen girl who could control boys with an app on her cell phone. While there is so much to dislike about this particular plotline, I can’t help but hate the fact that the characters our daughters are looking up to now are tapping their acrylic-manicured fingertips across a screen all day.

It makes Disney princesses seem so quaint, so benign. Now the standard of beauty isn’t  just unrealistic and materialistic; it’s also shallow and self-absorbed.

All I know is, if you could control human beings with an app, it would certainly be a best-seller, but it doesn’t work that way.

There is no magic app, fairy, or woodland creature to clean my toilets or water the roses that have gone dry on my windowsill, so I will have to take the astrologer’s advice and do those things myself. I only hope those around me will look up from their screens long enough to notice.

Hot vanilla

Because it was cold and rainy, I decided to stay inside cooking and cleaning all day instead of going to the big parade our city hosts every year on the first weekend in May. My idea of cooking is trying to make hot chocolate “from scratch” using soy milk, cocoa powder, and sugar. Sadly, the cocoa didn’t dissolve properly, so I had to dump the final product and invent an entirely new drink instead. But more on that later.

My next culinary endeavor involved reheating some chicken we’d picked up at a drive-through the night before. Thinking some of my family members would need more for lunch than a piece of microwaved chicken, I pulled a bag of frozen potato chunks out of the freezer, put them in a bowl with milk, butter, and garlic salt, and started the microwave.

If you think about it, it’s really pretty amazing that anyone ever makes real mashed potatoes anymore. It seems like it would require weeks of planning.

You’d have to buy the potatoes, peel and chop them, boil them …

This would take half a day, at least, for what most people still consider a side dish.

The microwaved mashed potatoes evoked a memory that for some reason has stayed with me since early childhood.

My mother had three kids of her own and two that she was babysitting in a small log cabin located in the woods in Frederick County, Virginia. On this day, in the early 1980s, my mother was serving mashed potatoes for lunch. Each child had a small plate of potatoes to eat, with water to drink.

I don’t remember feeling ashamed of this meal so much as I found it unappetizing. I think the other children felt the same way because I seem to recall several lumps of mashed potatoes left intact on the plates when one of the boys Mom was babysitting asked to her a question that she didn’t understand because of his toddler pronunciation.

He kept repeating the question and Mom kept saying, “I’m sorry, honey, I don’t have any juice.”

The boy looked at her quizzically, not moving from his seat at the table.

“I think he said he wants to be excused,” I proposed hopefully. I was 5 at most, and we weren’t in the habit of asking to be formally excused from the table in our household.

“Oh,” Mom said gratefully, “yes, you may be excused.”

The boy ambled off, leaving a cold little lump of potatoes at his place.

Whenever I discussed the memory of that miscommunication with my mother in the years since then, she reflected on how poor we were at the time, that we only had the potatoes for lunch, without even any juice to wash them down.

Now, back in 2017, at age 38.9, when I serve microwaved mashed potatoes with reheated drive-through chicken, I can say experience has made me rich enough to be grateful.

After I finished making the potatoes, I returned to the idea of a sweet, warm soymilk-based drink, but this time, I decided to leave out the uncooperative cocoa powder that had ruined the hot chocolate. This is how I invented the beverage I’ll call “hot vanilla.”

To make it, you simply microwave a cup of soymilk, add a half-teaspoon of vanilla extract and sugar.

I took a sip that wasn’t quite sweet enough, and heard a voice inside my head.

It said, “Be sure and stir it well, so the honey will dissolve.”

I hadn’t thought to add honey.

This was the voice of the lady who ran the tearoom we frequented as teenagers, before my town had a franchise coffee shop on every corner. This tearoom was open to the public, but it wasn’t for travelers or tourists. You had to know where you were going to find it.

It was located on the first floor of the owner’s home in a run-down section of town. Everyone who had lived in town for more than a decade knew of the tearoom’s existence and many had been there, but most of the regulars were teenagers and college students not yet old enough to socialize in bars.

This was in the 1990s. We’d go there wearing black velvet skirts and dark red lipstick to smoke clove cigarettes and sip vanilla tea while Ella Fitzgerald played on a jukebox. If memory serves, the wallpaper was a red satin and black velvet brocade. The room was lit with white Christmas lights.

The feeling was slightly clandestine. A lot of the kids who went to the tearoom were part of a network of smug wannabe literary types and self-proclaimed misfits who had accepted the fact that we would never make the cheerleading team or be homecoming kings or queens. But if one of us brought along, as a guest, an athlete, or perhaps the child of a Republican, then you treated that person with decency and respect and you didn’t laugh at them for gagging at the smell of secondhand clove cigarette smoke.

The tearoom was owned and operated by a tiny black woman on the verge of being elderly. From what I understood, she owned a good bit of property in town, but I was too young to care about real estate.

The woman who owned the tearoom was a stickler for manners and would correct you on improper etiquette. Like, don’t forget to wipe your muddy Dr. Martens at the door, keep your big black velvet hobo bag out of the walkway, and be sure to leave your spoon on the saucer, not in the teacup.

She offered several rotating varieties of tea and would recite them to each table upon seating. The cost of a cup was around $2.50, and it went up with the price of honey. Apparently she also served food, but no one ever ordered any.

She spoke at a volume just above a gentle whisper and had one of those voices that tickles, almost hypnotically. I had the sense that I could have listened to her talk for hours on any topic, but she seemed to be a woman of few words.

Most every time she served a cup of tea, she left you with this advice:

“Be sure and stir it well, so the honey will dissolve.”

She must have said those words to hundreds of us, thousands of times.

I wonder how many women who used to be girls in black velvet skirts and coffee-colored lipstick sipping flavored tea in that room still hear that voice on occasion as we stir hot drinks in kitchens and restaurants and tearooms all over.