Renewed

It takes three pillows to lift me high enough to see above the Kia Soul's dashboard. "I had great visibility in my last car, a Honda Fit," I tell Michelle, as she hauls a trio from the trunk. "I'll be more confident if I can see both front fenders."

"Pedestrians, too," Michelle says, "you have to watch out for pedestrians and bicyclists. Check left, front, and right before proceeding or turning, think 'left, front, and right."'

I repeat, "left, front, and ride," hoping her mantra will guarantee that any walkers and riders in my path remain unscathed.

Michelle, who is young enough to be a granddaughter, has picked me up at 6:00 in the morning for my first driving lesson. After two hours of instruction and practice, she will accompany me to the DMV, lead me through the lines, and then wait while a tester takes over the passenger seat.

It was just four months ago, on my 77th birthday, when I decided to let my driver's license expire. I reasoned that since I hadn't driven for nearly two years, I wouldn't bother with the renewal and instead apply for a state identification card. After all, with my two legs, shared rides -- Uber and Lyft -- and the CTA, I had competently managed my travel needs.

Recently, the lack of a license started to nag: I felt my decision to forgo renewal had prematurely aged me. And the only way to reverse that discomfort was to get it back. But, first I'd had to pass a road test.

I was certain any licensed friend would be willing to escort me to the DMV, and then turn over their car for the test, but I was too skittish for that route. If I could take a few lessons from an accredited driving school, and then use their auto for the road test, I was certain my chances of passing would improve. A search on Yelp led me to the Nova Driving School, to Michelle, and to the three pillows between my tush and the Kia's front seat.

In 1952, when my dad first taught me how to drive, I pulled pillows from our plastic-covered sofa to prop me in his four-door Buick. As he flicked ashes from Camels into the butt-littered tray, he showed me how to grasp the wheel in the ten and two positions, execute the hand-over-hand turn, operate the stick shift, and play the clutch.

And he divulged secrets to parallel parking, which I have since passed down to two daughters and one grandson:  Line up your car with one that is parked at the curb. Slowly, back up into the empty space as you turn the steering wheel to the right. Fix your eyes on the right headlight of the car parked behind. Aim for your target, then reverse the direction of the steering wheel. Slip in.

"Make a left at the next light," Michelle says. I push the lever down to signal my turn, step gently on the brake, and come to a neat stop at the red signal. My instructor looks pleased as I say, "left, front, and right" while checking each of the three directions.

"You've got this," Michelle says, likely relieved that despite my age and lack of practice for two years; she will not have to stomp on her instructor's brake. "You haven't forgotten anything."

"This is fun," I say, resisting the urge to floor the gas pedal as if I were a felon fleeing the scene. Muscle memory has renewed and I am once again the teenager who has been handed the keys to the Buick.

"Both hands on the wheel," Michelle orders, after my left dropped to my lap following the classic hand-over-hand.

"But that's how I always drive," I tell her.

"You could lose a point for that," she says.

When Dad drove, he used only one hand for the wheel; the left lingered out the rolled down window. His arm was tanned from finger to elbow, and the remainder white as his grocery store apron.

During the road test, I forced myself to keep both hands on the wheel. And with Michelle's meticulous instructions, and memories of Dad's lessons, I easily passed. Sadly, I wasn't required to parallel park; I would've aced that.

To keep fresh, I'll occasionally rent a Zipcar, haul pillows from my couch, and take a spin. Anyone need a lift? Costco run?

Shrinking

I had three choices: I could drag over the step stool that was across the aisle, climb to the highest shelf, and reach up and snatch the bottle of house brand Vinegar and Oil salad dressing. Or I could wander the supermarket to uncover a clerk. Maybe, I could catch the first tall person I'd see and plead for help.

Because I'm prone to disaster scenarios, I envisioned bitty me atop the stool, losing my footing, hanging onto the shelf itself, hauling it and its contents down with me, and falling flat into a sea of Caesar, Italian, and Ranch.

Instead, I chose option three and called out to a man who entered the aisle: "Tall person!"

He pointed to his chest, indicating he was unsure if I was referring to him, or if he had encountered a demented elder mistaking him for a wayward son.

"Could you get that bottle of salad dressing?" I said, pointing upward and smiling to make sure he understood my mirth. "I'm horizontally challenged."

With the ease of a basketball player, he put one hand around the neck of my prey and handed it to me. "No problem," he said, likely relieved I was sane.

Such episodes describe the life of an adult under five feet tall and shrinking. The towering supermarket shelf is just one inconvenience we wee ones endure. The other side includes the adjectives assigned to our stature. For example, this scene in the women’s locker room at a former health club: I was at the mirror, putting on makeup, nude except for a towel around my torso. She was to my right, smiling down at me. A tall woman, five ten, I’d guess.

 “You’re so cute!” she had said. “How tall are you?”

I shifted to the left; afraid she might next pat my head, as if I were a puppy or toddler. “I used to be four eleven and a half, but now I’m four nine,” I said. “You shrink as you get older.”  As soon as the words left my mouth, images of Dorothy's Wicked Witch rode into my brain. Instead of a broomstick, I saw the crone dissolve into a puddle with only her pointy hat remaining.

I suppose by now I should be  used to cuddly responses to my height. After all, I’m 77, and have always been the shortest in a group. Early class photos are evidence: first row, first seat, and feet barely touching the floor.

“You were so cute,” that’s how my best friend Ruth remembers me in sixth grade when we first met. “Just like a doll.” We have been close friends for more than 60 years. Ruth says she’s shrinking, too, but she’s still at least five nine.

I don’t remember it bothering me in grade school, but I think by high school the words started to chafe, and the older I got, the more irritating “cute” and “doll” became. If it were up to me, I’d select comments about my personality, not my dimensions.

To be honest, I've never felt handicapped as a short woman. I do my best work sitting, where size is irrelevant. Yes, I have to perch on a phone book to get my hair shampooed, and I have a hard time at the movies if someone tall fills the seat in front. And, there's that supermarket thing.

Now that I think of it, one reason I fell for my first husband, who at six feet proposed despite my size, was because he thought me smart, clever, and funny. As for me, I loved his tallness – believing I had gained stature, just by hanging on his arm.

But from the beginning there were problems with our differences in altitudes. “Can’t hear you,” I'd shout up as we held hands walking down the street. And when we danced, his arm around my shoulder, my nose at his navel, we were comic.

My sweetheart of a second husband was a perfect five seven. No communication or waltz snags. While he did throw in a few “you’re so cute” endearments, I knew it was my accomplishments he bragged about to friends.

I've been a widow for three years now, and am thinking I'd like a male companion -- not a husband, just a buddy for early dinners, TV watching, and chaste spooning. If he's somewhere in my age range, his height has likely dipped a few inches, too. Fortunately, for the three activities I've just identified, that shouldn't be a problem.

Sanctuary

I slipped into an aisle seat figuring I could sneak out early if I got bored, or if I felt out of place. I looked up as others entered the synagogue's sanctuary and I'd nod a greeting when I'd spot a familiar face. As a pianist struck up notes and a choir of four began to sing prayers for the Friday night service, I settled in.

But why, in the midst of this fellowship and serenity, did I feel as guilty as if I had crept into a casino?

I was embarrassed to tell friends and family of my evening activity because upon returning to Chicago from Los Angeles three months ago, I had declared: "I've given up religion. I'm not going to High Holiday services this year or join a synagogue."

My dear crowd accepted this decision without debate because they have been witness to my forays in and out of Judaism. Growing up in the 1940's, my family's relationship with religion was cultural, rather than observant: We devoured fatty foods; championed Jewish athletes, movie stars, and comedians; supported Israel; and prayed that headlined criminals were not part of our tribe. And we attended synagogue services only once a year on the High Holidays.

But that mediocre piety didn't prevent my parents from pushing my brother Ron to become a Bar Mitzvah. As for me, in 1951, when I was 13 -- the age for this rite of passage -- girls in my group weren't similarly coerced. So I faltered on my faith for several decades.

Things changed in 1989, and I peg it on Empty Nest Syndrome. Both of our daughters were out of the house and I was seeking a project my spouse and I could do together. Instead of moving to a new residence -- which was my usual solution for our feeble marriage -- I suggested we join a synagogue.

We did. I jumped in, submerged, and resurfaced with a desire to have an adult Bat Mitzvah. I hired a tutor, learned to read Hebrew for my Torah portion, chanted, and hosted a celebration. Alas, one year later, our marriage expired and my link to that Reconstructionist synagogue ended, too.

In 2012, after my second husband Tommy died and I moved from our house to a downtown apartment, I joined a Reform synagogue where on Saturday mornings a group of 20 or so debated the week's Torah portion. "I love the intellectual stimulation," I told those skeptical of this fresh trail in my religious journey.

In Los Angeles, I quickly found another Reform temple and another series of Saturday morning studies. So why, after these two seemingly worthy religious experiences, did I vow, upon returning home to Chicago, that I would be avoiding Judaism, Torah study, and the High Holidays?

"I wanted to feel part of a community," I told a friend, whining like a pathetic teenager who had been excluded from the popular girls' clique. "But I was never invited to anyone's home for dinner. At both synagogues, they'd all been together for decades, and evidently weren't interested in squeezing in this newcomer."

"Maybe if you had stayed longer," she suggested, "or joined committees, then you'd feel more part of the group." But I wanted to be immediately bonded. I was impatient, felt wounded, and decided I was finished with religion.

So, what happened last Friday to send me to evening services at the very same Chicago Reform temple I had huffed my way out of? My theory is while I originally believed I was seeking community and intellectual stimulation, I was really searching for something deeper, something to heal losses. In the first case, I was a recent widow who had buried a dear husband, and in the second, a transplant who moved away from good friends in a beloved city.

 Evidently some pains remain: Tommy's death still feels fresh. And by returning to Chicago, I left behind my adored Los Angeles family. Add in, some in my circle face health challenges. Perhaps it is these facts of life that propelled me to find a harbor.

At last Friday night's service, as I sat in the synagogue's sanctuary, I listened to the choir and absorbed the rabbi's words. (In my absence, a new rabbi and assistant rabbi came on board. The latter is a woman -- a bonus in my view). And, I joined the congregation in reciting communal prayers for healing and mourning.

Based on my seesaw history with Judaism, my relatives and friends may be skeptical about this current religious plunge and wonder how long it will last.

Does it matter?

Bad Grandma

We are sitting knee-to-knee at the top of a long flight of stairs that runs from the first floor of my daughter's Los Angeles home, to the second. There are three bedrooms up here; two are empty -- the adults having left for the night. And the third, where my 6-year-old grandson was supposed to be slumbering, has just been vacated.

"Call Mommy and tell her to come home," he says, one hand on the banister and the other wiping fresh tears from his face.

"No, I'm not," I say. "Mommy needs a night out."

His tears, which I believe are as false as those of a screen idol, slide from a trickle to full faucet. I am impressed with this talent.

"I want Mommy," he repeats.

"I can put you to bed," I say. After all, I had already fulfilled the prescription left by his mother: We cuddled under the covers, I flipped the pages of a favorite book and read dramatically -- playing all of the characters in different tones of voices -- and, I kissed his sweet forehead before twirling the light knob off and slipping out the door.

"Call Daddy. Call Isaac. Call Faith," he said. His father, brother, aunt; I waited for him to add the postman, gardener, housekeeper -- anyone but bad Grandma.

"I don't feel safe," he said, tossing a grenade. I smiled as I heard a sentence likely gleaned from kindergarten warnings.

"What can I do to make you feel safe?"

"Call Mommy."

"You're acting like a bully," I said. My grandson paused his tears for a bit and turned to look at me. He couldn't believe his ears, and his luck.

"You shouldn't call me a bully," he said. "That's not allowed at school."

I could see the scoreboard in my head, and his hometown team was trouncing the visiting one. Then, came my next foul: I started to cry. Not false tears as I believed my grandson was producing, and not sobs, just wet whispers of defeat.

"You win," I said. We had been at this for 30 minutes and I was ready to wave the white flag. "Let's go downstairs and call your mother."

When we reached the guest room where I was spending the night, he hopped in my bed, smiling as if he had been designated Most Valuable Player.

My cell phone had already received a text from my daughter. "How did everything go?" she wrote. "Were you able to put him to sleep?"

Self-pity turned to pique. My second born -- the recipient of decades of my love and devotion -- had predicted I'd encounter difficulty in putting her own second born to bed. She knew I was fresh at this, having lived in different cities for all of his young years. Why had she not warned me? Why had she allowed me to enter the game like a player without proper headgear?

I returned her text: "I failed. He wants you home."

"On my way," she sent back.

When I turned to tell him the good news, he was fast asleep on my bed. His mother arrived, shook her head, and then carried him upstairs.

The next morning, my grandson and I greeted each other warily. Instead of pouting, I opted to put the previous night's episode behind me. "What would you like for breakfast?" I asked, kissing the top of his head. "We have Cheerios, or if you prefer, waffles." I was acting Diner Waitress in a game we often played.

"Cheerios," he said, evidently also eager to erase our evening dust-up.

The next day after I returned to my Los Angeles apartment, my daughter phoned. "He said you called him a bully and that you cried."

"True and true," I said.

"You shouldn't have done either," she said.

"I was unprepared," I said. "I didn't plan my reaction and couldn't help my tears."

"You're the adult," she said. "You should've known better."

My shoulders sunk as I felt another round slipping away. "I'm sorry," I said. "I wish it had turned out differently."

That evening, I sent my daughter a text. "How about I come over early tomorrow and give him breakfast? You can sleep in."

"That would be lovely," she typed back. We were not opponents after all. Obviously, the three of us had regretted our actions, words, and wounds, but remain deeply attached.

Now, because my daughter is an award-winning TV writer and director, the unfortunate scene just described could possibly be fictionalized and turn up in one of her episodes. Luckily, I can first report it here, from my POV.

So score one for grandmas -- good, bad, and somewhere in between.

Piano

The freight elevator is reserved for Friday between 10 and noon. A member of the maintenance crew has already been to my apartment and removed from a hallway closet two folding doors and wire shelving.

For my part, I've shifted its contents to a different closet in my 582-square-foot studio. Soon, a pre-owned Everett Upright Piano, with bench, will occupy that empty area, which once housed a handful of sweaters, a mat for morning stretches, a pail, broom, and dry mop. Instead of a wave of a hand like some ordinary wizard, I have used wit and brawn to transform a once humble space into a music room.

"How long have you been playing?" the eager salesman had asked as we climbed two flights of stairs to review pianos in my price range.

Catching my breath, I had said, "Oh, I can't really play. I'm a perpetual beginner. All I want is to learn how to play Rogers and Hart." He hesitated, perhaps wondering if I was serious in my search, then shrugged whatever and continued up another flight.

I didn't think he needed the history of my piano quest, but I'll tell you: Neither my first husband nor I played, but because we believed a house filled with music was a bonus, in 1970 we bought an upright and offered lessons to our daughters.

From the moment six-year-old Faith sat down on the bench; she treated the instrument as if it were her long-lost twin. (Her sister, Jill, tried lessons, but quickly decided to leave that particular talent to her sibling.)

My draw to the piano didn't occur during those years; it wasn't until another time and place that I decided to take lessons. It was the '80s, and the upright had been exchanged for an ebony baby grand. I can still see that handsome piece, with its wing-shaped lid, which seemed to send its notes soaring.

I wish I could remember the name of the young man who was my first teacher, and led me through Alfred's Basic Adult Piano Course - Level 1. But in 1990, when my first marriage ended, the baby grand and lessons exited, too.

Tommy and I first met in 1996, and we learned we had the same favorite song: Rogers' and Hart's "It Never Entered My Mind." That commonality, plus others, led to marriage and another piano. I was never able to smoothly play our tune, but I could pick my way through George Gershwin's, "They Can't Take That Away From Me."

I can still see -- and hear -- my wannabe crooner standing at the side of our Yamaha, belting out "The way your wear your hat..." Like an aged nightclub duo, I'd I search for the right keys while my sweetheart patiently waited for me to catch up to his lyrics.

After Tommy died in 2012, I sold our house. The piano went, too, as part of an estate sale. Because I was moving to a studio apartment in River North, I believed there'd be no room for the instrument. Or, maybe I thought any images of our schmaltzy showbiz scene would be too hard to bear.

During my nine-month stay in Los Angeles, my roomy one-bedroom apartment could've housed a piano, even a baby grand, but I never desired one. It wasn't until I returned to Chicago, and in a conversation with a friend that the thought came up. I must've been gloomy the day of our lunch, because she advised: "Find something to make you happy."

Happy. Then, clear as day I heard Tommy's tenor: "The way you haunt my dreams,
no, no, they can't take that away from me." I saw the two of us in the dining room alcove where the upright stood. I heard us laugh as I struggled with chords.

"A piano," I told my friend. "A piano and lessons; that made me happy."

So, once the pre-owned Everett comes home, and I hang portraits of jazz giants on walls where wire once hung, I plan to host "Sing Along Sundays." By then, I'll have purchased a few songbooks and those who can squeeze in, and are willing to play piano, or sing, will bring alive Rogers, Hart, Gershwin, and others of that era.

During those times, perhaps our chorus will imagine ourselves in a favorite musical. And because my mind's eye knows no limits, I'll see Tommy there, too. Maybe by then, I'll be adept at our favorite song, and I can accompany him as he sings, "And wish that you were there again, to get into my hair again, it never entered my mind."